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ONE  DAY,  AS  WE  WERE  WALKING  OVER  THE  FIELDS,   I  TOLD  HIM   THE 
WHOLE  STORY. 


Wilfrid  Cumbermede 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL   STORY 


LY 


GEORGE    MACDONALD 

AUTHOR     OF     "ANNALS     OK     A     QUIET     NEIGHBORHOOL),"      "  ALKC     FORBES, 
"  ROBERT    FALCONER,"    ETC. 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK : 

GEORGE    ROUTLEDGE  &  SONS, 

9    Lafayette    Place. 


IN  MEMORIAM 


uJs 

M4/AJ 
CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 1 

Chapter  I. 

WHERE  I   FIND  MYSELF  5 

Chapter  II. 

MY  UNCLE  AND   AUNT 12 

Chapter  III. 
at  the  top  of  the  chimney-stair  15 

Chapter  IV. 
the  pendulum 20 

Chapter  V. 
I  have  lessons J 30 

Chapter  VI. 
I  COBBLE 37 

Chapter  VII. 

THE  SWORD  ON  THE  WALL  39 

Chapter  VIII. 

I   GO   TO   SCHOOL,   AND   GRANNIE    LEAVES   IT..  50 

iii 
C\^  /2  /3  -^  I  ;. 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Chapter  IX. 

PAGE 

I   SIN   AND    REPENT  58 

Chapter  X. 

I   BUILD   castles 71 

Chapter  XI. 
A  talk  with  ]vrY  uncle 85 

Chapter  XII. 
THE  house-steward 93 

Chapter  XIII. 
the  leads 108 

Chapter  XIV. 
THE  ghost 120 

Chapter  XV. 

AWAY 127 

Chapter  XVI. 

THE  ICE-CAVE 134 

Chapter  XVII. 

AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS 140 

Chapter  XVIII. 

AGAIN   THE   ICE-CAVE 157 

Chapter  XIX. 

CHARLEY   NURSES  ME  165 

Chapter  XX. 

A    DREAM 169 


CONTENTS.  V 

Chapter  XXI. 

PAGE 

THE   FROZEN   STREAM 173 

Chapter  XXII. 

AN  EXPLOSION 178 

Chapter  XXIII. 

ONLY  A   LINK 185 

Chapter  XXIV. 

CHARLEY  AT   OXFORD '. 19  j 

Chapter  XXV. 

MY  WHITE  MARE 203 

Chapter  XXVI. 

A  RIDING  LESSON 212 

Chapter  XXVII. 

A   DISAPPOINTMENT 224 

Chapter  XXVIII. 

IN  LONDON  231 

Chapter  XXIX. 

CHANGES 242 

Chapter  XXX. 

PROPOSALS 246 

Chapter  XXXI. 
arrangements  252 

Chapter  XXXII. 
preparations  260 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Chapter  XXXIII. 

PAGE 

ASSISTANCE  268 

Chapter  XXXIV. 

AN    EXPOSTULATION 274 

Chapter  XXXV. 

A  TALK   WITH  CHARLEY    282 

Chapter  XXXVI. 

TAPESTRY 291 

Chapter  XXXVII. 

THE   OLD   CHEST 307 

Chapter  XXXVIII. 

MARY   OSBORNE 312 

Chapter  XXXIX. 

A  STORM  320 

Chapter  XL. 
A  DREAM  327 

Chapter  XLI. 
A  WAKING 330 

Chapter  XLII. 
a  talk  about  suicide 334 

Chapter  XLIII. 
the  sword  in  the  SCALE 348 

Chapter  XLIV. 
i  part  with  my  sword 361 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

Chapter  XLV. 

PAGE 

UMBERDEN    CHURCH 369 

Chapter  XL VI. 
MY  FOLIO »- 376 

Chapter  XLVII. 
the  letters  and  their  story 380 

Chapter  XLVIII. 
only  a  link 385 

Chapter  XLIX.                 % 
A  disclosure 389 

Chapter  L. 
the  dates 397 

'                            Chapter  LI. 
charley  and  clara 401 

Chapter  LIL 
lilith  meets  with  a  misfortune 407 

Chapter  LIIL 
TOO  late  415 

Chapter  LIV. 
isolation .* 428 

Chapter  LV. 
attempts  and  coincidences 432 

Chapter  LVI. 
THE  late  vision 440 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

Chapter  LVII. 

PAGH 

another  dream 448 

Chapter  LVIII. 
THE  darkest  hour 454 

Chapter  LIX. 
THE  DAWN 460 

Chapter  LX. 
MY  great-grandmother 466 

,                  Chapter  LXI. 
the  parish  register  472 

Chapter  LXII. 
A  foolish  triumph 477 

Chapter  LXIII. 
a  collision 484 

Chapter  LXIV. 
YET  ONCE  490 

Chapter  LXV. 
conclusion 495 


WILFRID    CUMBERMEDE. 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  STORY. 


INTRODUCTION. 

I  AM — I  will  not  say  how  old,  but  well  past  middle  age. 
This  much  I  feel  compelled  to  mention,  because  it  has  long 
been  my  opinion  that  no  man  should  attempt  a  history  of  him- 
self until  he  has  set  foot  upon  the  border-land  where  the  past 
and  the  future  begin  to  blend  in  a  consciousness  somewhat  in- 
dependent of  both,  and  hence  interpreting  both.  Looking 
westward,  from  this  vantage-ground,  the  setting  sun  is  not  the 
less  lovely  to  him  that  he  recalls  a  merrier  time  when  the 
shadows  fell  the  other  way.  Then  they  sped  westward  before 
him,  as  if  to  vanish,  chased  by  his  advancing  footsteps,  over 
the  verge  of  the  world.  Now  they  come  creeping  towards  him, 
lengthening  as  they  come.  And  they  are  welcome.  Can  it  be 
that  he  would  ever  have  chosen  a  world  without  shadows? 
Was  not  the  trouble  of  the  shadowless  noon  the  dreariest  of 
all  ?  Did  he  not  then  long  for  the  curtained  queen — the  all- 
shadowy  night?  And  shall  he  now  regard  with  dismay  the 
setting  sun  of  his  earthly  life?     When  he  looks  back,  he  sees 

1 


Z  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

the  fiirthest  cloud  of  the  sun-deserted  east  alive  with  a  rosy 
hue.  It  is  the  prophecy  of  the  sunset  concerning  the  dawn. 
For  the  sun  itself  is  ever  a  rising  sun,  and  the  morning  will 
come  though  the  night  should  be  dark. 

In  this  "season  of  calm  weather,"  when  the  past  has  receded 
so  far  that  he  can  behold  it  as  in  a  picture,  and  his  share  in  it 
as  the  history  of  a  man  who  had  lived  and  would  soon  die; 
when  he  can  confess  his  faults  without  the  bitterness  of  shame, 
both  because  he  is  humble,  and  because  the  faults  themselves 
have  dropped  from  him ;  when  his  good  deeds  look  poverty- 
stricken  in  his  eyes,  and  he  would  no  more  claim  consideration 
for  them  than  expect  knighthood  because  he  was  no  thief; 
when  he  cares  little  for  his  reputation,  but  much  for  his  cha- 
racter— little  for  what  has  gone  beyond  his  control,  but  end- 
lessly much  for  what  yet  remains  in  his  will  to  determine ; 
then,  I  think,  a  man  may  do  well  to  write  his  own  life. 

"  So,"  I  imagine  a  reader  interposing,  "  you  profess  to  have 
arrived  at  this  high  degree  of  perfection  yourself?" 

I  reply  that  the  man  who  has  attained  this  kind  of  indiffer- 
ence to  the  past,  this  kind  of  hope  in  the  future,  will  be  far 
enough  from  considering  it  a  high  degree  of  perfection.  The 
very  idea  is  to  such  a  man  ludicrous.  One  may  eat  bread 
without  claiming  the  honors  of  an  athlete ;  one  may  desire  to 
be  honest,  and  not  count  himself  a  saint.  My  object  in  thus 
shadowing  out  what  seems  to  me  my  present  condition  of  mind, 
is  merely  to  render  it  intelligible  to  my  readers  how  an  auto- 
biography might  come  to  be  written  without  rendering  the 
writer  justly  liable  to  the  charge  of  that  overweening,  or  self- 
conceit,  which  might  be  involved  in  the  mere  conception  of 
the  idea. 

In  listening  to  similar  recitals  from  the  mouths  of  elderly 
people,  I  have  observed  that  many  things  which  seemed  to 
the  persons  principally  concerned  ordinary  enough,  had  to  me 
a  wonder  and  a  significance  they  did  not  perceive.  Let  me 
hope  that  some  of  the  things  I  am  about  to  relate  may  fare 
similarly,  although,  to  be  honest,  I  must  confess  I  could  not 
have  undertaken  the  task — for  a  task  it  is — upon  this  chance 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

alone :  I  do  think  some  of  my  history  worthy  of  being  told 
just  for  the  facts'  sake.  God  knows  I  have  had  small  share 
in  that  worthiness.  The  weakness  of  my  life  has  been  that  I 
would  ever  do  some  great  thing ;  the  saving  of  my  life  has 
been  my  utter  failure.  I  have  never  done  a  great  deed.  If  I 
had,  I  know  that  one  of  my  temperament  could  not  have 
escaped  serious  consequences.  I  have  had  more  pleasure,  when 
a  grown  man,  in  a  certain  discovery  concerning  the  ownership 
of  an  apple  of  which  I  had  taken  the  ancestral  bite  when  a  boy, 
than  I  can  remember  to  have  resulted  from  any  action  of  my 
own  during  my  whole  existence.  But  I  detest  the  notion  of 
puzzling  my  readers  in  order  to  enjoy  their  fancied  surprise,  or 
their  possible  praise  of  a  worthless  ingenuity  of  concealment. 
If  I  ever  appear  to  behave  to  them  thus,  it  is  merely  that  I 
follow  the  course  of  my  own  knowledge  of  myself  and  my  af- 
fairs, without  any  desire  to  give  them  either  the  pain  or  the 
pleasure  of  suspense,  if  indeed  I  may  flatter  myself  with  the 
hope  of  interesting  them  to  such  a  degree  that  suspense  should 
become  possible. 

When  I  look  over  what  I  have  written,  I  find  the  tone  so 
sombre — let  me  see:  what  sort  of  an  evening  is  it  on  which  I 
commence  this  book?  Ah!  I  thought  so:  a  sombre  evening. 
The  sun  is  going  down  behind  a  low  bank  of  gray  cloud,  the 
upper  edge  of  which  he  tinges  with  a  faded  yellow.  There  will 
be  rain  before  morning.  It  is  late  autumji,  and  most  of  the 
crops  are  gathered  in.  A  bluish  fog  is  rising  from  the  lower 
meadows.  As  I  look  I  grow  cold.  It  is  not,  somehow,  an  in-  \ 
teresting  evening.  Yet  if  I  found  just  this  evening  well  de-  I 
scribed  in  a  novel,  I  should  enjoy  it  heartily.  The  poorest,^; 
weakest  drizzle  upon  the  window-panes  of  a  dreary  road-side 
inn,  in  a  country  of  slate-quarries,  possesses  an  interest  to  him 
who  enters  it  by  the  door  of  a  book,  hardly  less  than  the  pour- 
ing rain  which  threatens  to  swell  every  brook  to  a  torrent. 
How  is  this?  I  think  it  is  because  your  troubles  do  not  enter 
into  the  book,  and  its  troubles  do  not  enter  into  you,  and 
therefore  Nature  operates  upon  you  unthwarted  by  the  personal 
conditions  which  so  often  counteract  her  present  influences. 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

But  I  will  rather  shut  out  the  fading  west,  the  gathering  mist% 
and  the  troubled  consciousness  of  Nature  altogether,  light  my 
fire  and  my  pipe,  and  then  try  whether  in  my  first  chapter  I 
cannot  be  a  boy  again  in  such  fashion  that  my  ghostly  com- 
panion, that  is,  my  typical  reader,  will  not  be  too  impatient  to 
linger  a  little  in  the  meadows  of  childhood  ere  we  pass  to  the 
corn-fields  of  riper  years. 


WHEKE   I   FIND   MYSELF. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHERE   I   FIND   MYSELF. 

No  wisest  chicken,  I  presume,  can  recall  the  first  moment 
when  the  chalk-oval  surrounding  it  gave  way,  and  instead  of 
the  cavern  of  limestone  which  its  experience  might  liave  led  it 
to  expect,  it  found  a  world  of  air  and  movement  and  freedom 
and  blue  sky — with  kites  in  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  often 
wished  when  a  child,  that  I  had  watched  while  God  was 
making  me,  so  that  I  might  have  remembered  how  he  did  it. 
Now  my  wonder  is  whether  when  I  creep  forth  into  "that  new 
world  which  is  the  old,"  I  shall  be  conscious  of  the  birth,  and 
enjoy  the  whole  mighty  surprise,  or  whether  I  shall  become 
gradually  aware  that  things  are  changed,  and  stare  about  me 
like  the  new-born  baby.  What  will  be  the  candle-flame  that 
shall  first  attract  my  new-born  sight?  But  I  forget  that 
speculation  about  the  new  life  is  not  writing  the  history  of 
the  old. 

I  have  often  tried  how  ihr  back  my  memory  could  go.  I 
suspect  there  are  awfully  ancient  shadows  mingling  with  our 
memories ;  but,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  the  earliest  definite  me- 
mory I  have  is  the  discovery  of  how  the  wind  was  made ;  for  I 
saw  the  process  going  on  before  my  very  eyes,  and  there  could 
be,  and  there  was,  no  doubt  of  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect 
in  the  matter.  There  were  the  trees  swaying  themselves  about 
after  the  wildest  fashion,  and  there  was  the  wind  in  consequence 
visiting  my  person  somewhat  too  roughly.  The  trees  were 
blowing  in  my  face.  They  made  the  wind,  and  threw  it  at 
me.  I  used  my  natural  senses,  and  this  was  what  they  told 
me.  The  discovery  impressed  me  so  deeply  that  even  now  I 
cannot  look  upon  trees  without  a  certain  indescribable,  and,  but 
for  this  remembrance,  unaccountable  awe.  A  grove  was  to  me 
for  many  years  a  fountain  of  wind,  and,  in  the  stillest  day,  to 


6  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

look  ioto^a  deptl^  of  gathered  stems  filled  me  with  dismay;  for 
the  whole  :i\\i'ii\  '(\BSQiii)o]y.  noight,  writhing  together  in  earnest 
and  e^logkp'.V  c/)iHortion,  iit.any  moment  begiu  their  fearful 
ta&k  oVoluirDii)^' fljtt;  >\md.'  . 

There  were  no  trees  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  house  where 
1  was  born.  It  stood  in  the  midst  of  grass,  and  nothing  but 
grass  was  to  be  seen  for  a  long  way  on  every  side  of  it  There 
was  not  a  gravel  path  or  a  road  near  it.  Its  walls,  old  and 
rusty,  rose  immediately  from  the  grass.  Green  blades  and  a 
few  heads  oT  daisies  leaned  trustingly  against  the  brown  stone, 
all  the  sharpness  of  whose  fractures  had  long  since  vanished, 
worn  away  by  the  sun  and  the  rain,  or  filled  up  by  the  slow 
lichens,  which  I  used  to  think  were  young  stones  growing  out 
of  the  wall.  The  ground  was  part  of  a  very  old  dairy-farm, 
and  my  uncle,  to  whom  it  belonged,  would  not  have  a  path  about 
the  place.  But  then  the  grass  was  well  subdued  by  the  cows, 
and,  indeed,  I  think,  would  never  have  grown  very  long,  for  it 
was  of  that  delicate  sort  which  we  see  only  on  downs  and  in 
parks  and  on  old  grazing  farms.  All  about  the  house — as 
far,  at  least,  as  my  lowly  eyes  could  see — the  ground  was  per- 
fectly level,  and  this  lake  of  greenery,  out  of  which  it  rose  like 
a  solitary  rock,  was  to  me  an  unfailing  mystery  and  delight. 
This  will  sound  strange  in  the  ears  of  those  who  consider  a 
mountainous,  or  at  least  an  undulating  surface,  essential  to 
beauty ;  but  nature  is  altogether  independent  of  what  is  called 
fine  scenery.  Tliere  are  other  organs  than  the  eyes,  even  if 
grass  and  water  and  sky  were  not  of  the  best  and  loveliest  of 
Nature's  show. 

The  house,  I  have  said,  was  of  an  ancient-looking  stone,  gray 
and  green  and  yellow  and  brown.  It  looked  very  hard ;  yet 
there  were  some  attempts  at  carving  about  the  heads  of  the 
narrow  windows.  The  carving  had,  however,  become  so  dull 
and  shadowy,  that  I  could  not  distinguish  a  single  form  or  se- 
parable portion  of  design:  still  some  ancient  thought  seemed 
ever  flickering  across  them.  The  house,  which  was  two  stories 
in  height,  had  a  certain  air  of  defence  about  it,  ill  to  explain. 
It  had  no  eaves,  for  the  walls  rose  above  the  edge  of  the  roof; 


WHERE   I   FIND   MYSELF. 


but  the  hints  at  battlements  were  of  the  merest.  The  roof,  co- 
vered with  gray  slates,  rose  very  steep,  and  had  narrow,  tall 
dormer  windows  in  it.  The  edges  of  the  gables  rose,  not  in  a 
slope,  but  in  a  succession  of  notches,  like  stairs.  Altogether, 
the  shell  to  which,  considered  as  a  crustaceous  animal,  I  be- 
longed— for  man  is  every  animal,  according  as  you  choose  to 
contemplate  him — had  an  old-world  look  about  it — a  look  of 
the  time  when  men  had  to  fight  in  order  to  have  peace,  to  kill 
in  order  to  live.  Being,  however,  a  crustaceous  animal,  I,  the 
heir  of  all  the  new  impulses  of  the  age,  was  born  and  reared  in 
closest  neighborhood  with  strange  relics  of  a  vanished  time. 
Humanity  so  far  retains  its  chief  characteristics,  that  the  new 
generations  can  always  flourish  in  the  old  shell. 

The  dairy  was  at  some  distance,  so  deep  in  a  hollow,  that  a 
careless  glance  would  not  have  discovered  it.  I  well  remember 
my  astonishment  when  my  aunt  first  took  me  there;  for  I  had 
not  even  observed  the  depression  of  surface :  all  had  been  a  le- 
vel green  to  my  eyes.  Beyond  this  hollow  were  fields  divided 
by  hedges,  and  lanes,  and  the  various  goings  to  and  fro  of  a  not 
unpeopled  although  quiet  neighborhood.  Until  I  left  home  for 
school,  however,  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  a  carriage  of 
any  kind  approach  oijr  solitary  dwelling.  My  uncle  would 
have  regarded  it  as  little  short  of  an  insult  for  any  one  to  drive 
wheels  over  the  smooth  lawny  surface  in  which  our  house  dwelt 
like  a  solitary  island  in  the  sea. 

Before  the  threshold  lay  a  brown  patch,  worn  bare  of  grass, 
and  beaten  hard  by  the  descending  feet  of  many  generations. 
The  stone  threshold  itself  was  worn  almost  to  a  level  with  it. 
A  visitor's  first  step  was  into  what  would,  in  some  parts,  be 
called  the  house-place,  a  room  which  served  all  the  purposes 
of  a  kitchen,  and  yet  partook  of  the  character  of  an  old  hall. 
It  rose  to  a  fair  height,  with  smoke-stained  beams  above,  and 
was  floored  with  a  kind  of  cement,  hard  enough,  and  yet  so 
worn,  that  it  required  a  good  deal  of  local  knowledge  to  avoid 
certain  jars  of  the  spine  from  sudden  changes  of  level.  All 
the  furniture  was  dark  and  shining,  especially  the  round  table, 
which,  with  its  bewildering,  spider-like  accumulation  of  legs, 


8  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

waited  under  the  miillioncd,  lozenged  window  until  meal-times, 
when,  like  an  animal  roused  from  its  lair,  it  stretched  out  those 
legs,  and  assumed  exi)anded  and  symmetrical  shape  in  front 
of  the  fire  in  winter,  and  nearer  the  door  in  summer.  It  recalls 
the  vision  of  my  aunt,  with  a  hand  at  each  end  of  it,  searching 
empirically  I'or  the  level — feeling  for  it,  that  is,  with  the  crea- 
ture's own  legs — before  lifting  the  hanging  leaves,  and  drawing 
out  the  hitherto  supernumerary  legs  to  support  them;  after 
which  would  come  a  fresh  adjustment  of  level,  another  hustling 
to  and  fro,  that  the  new  feet  likewise  might  settle  on  elevations 
of  equal  height ;  and  then  came  the  snowy  cloth  or  the  tea-tray, 
deposited  cautiously  upon  its  shining  surface. 

The  walls  of  this  room  were  always  whitewashed  in  the 
spring,  occasioning  ever  a  sharpened  contrast  with  the  dark 
brown  ceiling.  Whether  that  was  even  swept  I  do  not  know ; 
I  do  not  remember  ever  seeing  it  done.  At  all  events,  its 
color  remained  unimpaired  by  paint  or  whitewash.  On  the 
walls  hung  various  articles,  some  of  them  high  above  my 
head,  and  attractive  for  that  reason  if  for  no  other.  I  never 
saw  one  of  them  moved  from  its  place — not  even  the  fishing- 
rod,  which  required  the  whole  length  betwixt  the  two  windows ; 
three  rusty  hooks  hung  from  it,  and  waved  about  when  a  wind 
entered  ruder  than  common.  Over  the  fishing-rod  hung  a 
piece  of  tapestry,  about  a  yard  in  width,  and  longer  than  that. 
It  would  have  required  a  very  capable  constructiveness  indeed 
to  supply  the  design  from  what  remained,  so  fragmentary  were 
the  forms,  and  so  dim  and  faded  were  the  once  brig-ht  colors. 
It  was  there  as  an  ornament ;  for  that  which  is  a  mere  comple- 
ment of  higher  modes  of  life,  becomes,  when  useless,  the  orna- 
ment of  lower  conditions :  what  we  call  great  virtues  are  little 
regarded  by  the  saints.  It  was  long  before  I  began  to  think 
how  the  tapestry  could  have  come  there,  or  to  what  it  owed  the 
honor  given  it  in  the  house. 

On  the  opposite  wall  hung  another  object,  which  may  well 
have  been  the  cause  of  my  carelessness  about  the  former — at- 
tracting to  itself  all  my  interest.  It  was  a  sword,  in  a  leather 
sheath.     From  the  point,  half  way  to  the  hilt,  the  sheath  was 


WHERE   I    FIND   MYSELF.  9 

split  all  along'  the  edge  of  the  weapon.  The  sides  of  the 
wound  gaped,  and  the  blade  was  visible  to  my  prying  eyes. 
It  was  with  rust  almost  as  dark  a  brown  as  the  scabbard  that 
enfolded  it.  But  the  under  parts  of  the  hilt,  where  dust  could 
not  settle,  gleamed  with  a  faint  golden  shine.  That  sword  was 
to  my  childish  eyes  the  type  of  all  mystery,  a  clouded  glory, 
which  for  many  long  years  I  never  dreamed  of  attempting  to 
unveil.  Not  the  sword  Excalibur,  had  it  been  "  stored  in  some 
treasure-house  of  mighty  kings,"  could  have  radiated  more 
marvel  into  the  hearts  of  young  knights  than  that  sword  ra- 
diated into  mine.  Night  after  night  I  would  dream  of  danger 
drawing  nigh — crowds  of  men  of  evil  purpose — enemies  to  me 
or  to  my  country  ;  and  ever  in  the  beginning  of  my  dream,  I 
stood  ready,  foreknowing  and  waiting ;  for  I  had  climbed  and 
had  taken  the  ancient  power  from  the  wall,  and  had  girded  it 
about  my  waist — always  with  a  straw  rope,  the  sole  band  with- 
in my  reach  ;  but  as  it  went  on,  the  power  departed  from  the 
dream  :  I  stood  waiting  for  foes  who  would  not  come ;  or  they 
drew  near  in  fury,  and  when  I  would  have  drawn  my  weapon, 
old  blood  and  rust  held  it  fast  in  its  sheath,  and  I  tugged  at  it 
m  helpless  agony  ;  and  fear  invaded  my  heart,  and  I  turned 
and  fled,  pursued  by  my  foes  until  I  left  the  dream  itself 
behind,  whence  the  terror  still  pursued  me. 

There  were  many  things  more  on  those  walls.  A  pair  of 
spurs,  of  make  modern  enough,  hung  between  two  pewter  dish 
covers.  Hanging  book- shelves  came  next ;  for  although  most 
of  my  uncle's  books  were  in  his  bed-room,  some  of  the  com- 
moner wTre  here  on  the  wall,  next  to  an  old  fowling-piece,  of 
which  both  lock  and  barrel  were  devoured  with  rust.  Then 
came  a  great  pair  of  shears,  though  how  they  should  have 
been  there  I  cannot  yet  think,  for  there  was  no  garden  to  the 
house,  no  hedges  or  trees  to  clip.  I  need  not  linger  over  these 
things.  Their  proper  place  is  in  the  picture  with  which  I 
would  save  words  and  help  understanding  if  I  could. 

Of  course  there  was  a  great  chimney  in  the  place  ;  chiefly 
to  be  mentioned  from  the  singular  fact  that  just  round  its 
corner  was  a  little  door  opening  on  a  rude  winding  stair  of 


10  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE 

stone.  This  appeared  to  "be  constructed  within  the  chimney; 
but  on  the  outride  of  the  wall  was  a  half-round  projection, 
revealmg  that  the  stair  was  not  indebted  to  it  for  the  whole  of 
its  accommodation.  Whither  the  stair  led,  I  shall  have  to 
disclose  in  my  next  chapter.  From  the  opposite  end  of  the 
kitchen,  an  ordinary  wooden  staircase,  with  clumsy  balustrade, 
led  up  to  the  two  bed-rooms  occupied  by  my  uncle  and  my 
aunt ;  to  a  large  lumber-room,  whose  desertion  and  almost 
emptiness  was  a  source  of  uneasiness  in  certain  moods ;  and  to 
a  spare  bed-room,  which  was  better  furnished  than  any  of 
ours,  and  indeed  to  my  mind  a  very  grand  and  spacious 
apartment.  This  last  was  never  occupied  during  my  child- 
hood ;  consequently  it  smelt  musty  notwithstanding  my  aunt's 
exemplary  housekeeping.  Its  bedstead  must  have  been  hun- 
dreds of  years  old.  Above  these  rooms  again  were  those  to 
which  the  dormer  windows  belonged,  and  in  one  of  them  I 
slept.  It  opened  into  that  occupied  by  Nannie,  our  only 
maid.  It  had  a  deep  closet  in  which  I  kept  my  few  treasures, 
and  into  which  I  used  to  retire  when  out  of  temper  or 
troubled,  conditions  not  occurring  frequently,  for  nobody 
quaiTcUed  with  me,  and  I  had  nobody  with  whom  I  might 
have  quarrelled. 

When  I  climbed  upon  a  chair,  I  could  seat  myself  on  the 
broad  sill  of  the  dormer  window.  This  was  the  watch-tower 
whence  I  viewed  the  world.  Thence  I  could  see  trees  in  the 
distance — too  far  off  for  me  to  tell  whether  they  were  churn- 
ing wind  or  not.  On  that  side  those  trees  alone  were  between 
me  and  the  sky. 

One  day  when  my  aunt  took  me  with  her  into  the  lumber- 
room,  I  found  there,  in  a  corner,  a  piece  of  strange  mechan- 
ism. It  had  a  kind  of  pendulum  ;  but  I  cannot  describe  it 
because  I  had  lost  sight  of  it  long  before  I  was  capable  of 
discovering  its  use,  and  my  recollection  of  it  is  therefore  very 
vague — far  too  vague  to  admit  of  even  a  conjecture  now  as  tp 
what  it  could  have  been  intended  for.  But  I  remember  well 
enough  my  fancy  concerning  it,  though  when  or  how  that 
fancy  awoke  I  cannot  tell  either.     It  seems  to  me  as  old  as 


WHERE   I   FIND   MYSELF.  11 

the  finding  of  the  instrument.  The  fancy  was  that  if  I  could 
keep  tlie  pendulum  wagging  long  enough,  it  would  set  all 
those  trees  going  too;  and  if  I  still  kept  it  swinging,  we 
should  have  such  a  storm  of  wind  as  no  living  man  had  ever 
felt  or  heard  of.  That  I  more  than  half  believed  it,  will  be 
evident  from  the  fact  that,  although  I  frequently  carried  the 
pendulum  as  I  shall  call  it,  to  the  window  sill,  and  set  it  in 
motion  by  way  of  experiment,  I  had  not,  up  to  the  time  of  a 
certain  incident  which  I  shall  very  soon  have  to  relate,  had 
the  courage  to  keep  up  the  oscillations  beyond  ten  or  a  dozen 
strokes ;  partly  from  fear  of  the  trees,  partly  from  a  dim 
dread  of  exercising  power  whose  source  and  extent  were  not 
within  my  knowledge.  I  kept  the  pendulum  in  the  closet  I 
have  mentioned,  and  never  spoke  to  any  one  of  it. 


12  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  11. 

MY    UNCLE   AND   AUNT. 

We  were  a  curious  household.  I  remember  neither  father 
nor  mother ;  and  the  woman  I  had  been  taught  to  call  auntie 
was  no  such  near  relation.  My  uncle  was  my  father's  brother 
and  my  aunt  was  his  cousin,  by  the  mother's  side.  She  was  o 
tall,  gaunt  woman  with  a  sharp  nose  and  eager  eyes,  yet 
sparing  of  speech.  Indeed,  there  was  very  little  speech  to  be 
heard  in  the  house.  My  aunt,  however,  looked  as  if  she 
could  have  spoken.  I  think  it  was  the  spirit  of  the  place  that 
kept  her  silent,  for  there  were  those  eager  eyes.  She  might 
have  been  expected  also  to  show  a  bad  temper,  but  I  never 
saw  a  sign  of  such.  To  me  she  was  always  kind  ;  chiefly,  I 
allow,  in  a  negative  way,  leaving  me  to  do  very  much  as  I 
pleased.  I  doubt  if  she  felt  any  great  tenderness  for  me, 
although  T  had  been  dependent  upon  her  care  from  infancy. 
In  after  years  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  in  love 
with  my  uncle  ;  and  perhaps  the  sense  that  he  was  indifferent 
to  her  save  after  a  brotherly  fashion,  combined  with  the  fear 
of  betraying  herself  and  the  consciousness  of  her  unattractive 
appearance,  to  produce  the  contradiction  between  her  looks 
and  her  behaviour. 

Every  morning,  after  our  early  breakfast,  my  uncle  walked 
away  to  the  farm,  where  he  remained  until  dinner-time. 
Often,  when  busy  at  my  own  invented  games  in  the  grass,  I 
have  caught  sight  of  my  aunt,  standing  motionless  with  her 
hand  over  her  eyes,  watching  for  the  first  glimpse  of  my  uncle 
ascending  from  the  hollow  where  the  farm  buildings  lay ;  and 
occasionally,  when  something  had  led  her  thither  as  well,  I 
would  watch  them  returning  together  over  the  grass,  W'hen  she 
would  keep  glancing  up  in  his  face  at  almost  regular  intervals, 
although  it  was  evident  they  were  not  talking,  but  he  never 


MY    UNCLE   AND  AUNT.  13 

turned  his  face  or  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  ground  a  few  yards 
in  front  of  him. 

He  was  a  tall  man  of  nearly  fifty,  with  gray  hair,  and 
quiet  meditative  blue  eyes.  He  always  looked  as  if  he  were 
thinking.  He  had  been  intended  for  the  church,  but  the 
means  for  the  prosecution  of  his  studies  failing,  he  had  turned 
his  knowledge  of  rustic  affairs  to  account,  and  taken  a  subor- 
dinate position  on  a  nobleman's  estate,  where  he  rose  to  be 
bailiff.  When  my  father  was  seized  with  his  last  illness,  he 
returned  to  take  the  management  of  the  farm.  It  had  been 
in  the  family  for  many  generations.  Indeed,  that  portion  of 
it  upon  which  the  house  stood  was  our  own  property.  "VVheu 
my  mother  followed  my  father,  my  uncle  asked  his  cousin  to 
keep  house  for  him.  Perhaps  she  had  expected  a  further 
request,  but  more  had  not  come  of  it. 

When  he  came  in,  my  uncle  always  went  straight  to  his 
room ;  and  having  washed  his  hands  and  face,  took  a  book 
and  sat  down  in  the  window.  K  I  were  sent  to  tell  him  that 
the  meal  was  ready,  I  was  sure  to  find  him  reading.  He 
would  look  up,  smile,  and  look  down  at  his  book  again ,  nor, 
until  I  had  formally  delivered  my  message,  would  he  take 
further  notice  of  me.  Then  he  would  rise,  lay  his  book  care- 
fully aside,  take  ray  hand,  and  lead  me  down  stairs. 

To  my  childish  eyes  there  was  something  very  grand  about 
my  uncle.  His  face  was  large-featured  and  handsome ;  he 
was  tall,  and  stooped  meditatively.  I  think  my  respect  for 
him  was  founded  a  good  deal  upon  the  reverential  way  in 
which  my  aunt  regarded  him.  And  there  was  great  wisdom, 
I  came  to  know,  behind  that  countenance,  a  golden  speech 
behind  that  silence. 

My  reader  must  not  imagine  that  the  prevailing  silence  of 
the  house  oppressed  me.  I  had  been  brought  up  in  it,  and 
never  felt  it.  My  own  thoughts,  if  thoughts  those  conditions 
of  mind  could  be  called,  which  were  chiefly  passive  results  of 
external  influences — whatevei-  they  were — thoughts  or  feelings, 
sensations,  or  dim,  slow  movements  of  mind — they  filled  the 
great  pauses  of  speech  ;  and  besides,  I  could  read  the  faces  of 


14  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

both  my  uncle  and  aunt  like  the  pages  of  a  well-known  book. 
Every  shade  of  alteration  m  them  I  was  familiar  with,  for 
their  changes  were  not  many 

Although  my  uncle's  habit  was  silence,  however,  he  would 
now  and  then  take  a  fit  of  talkmg  to  me.  I  remember  many 
such  talks;  the  better,  perhaps,  that  they  were  divided  by 
long  intervals.  I  had  perfect  confidence  in  his  wisdom,  and 
submission  to  his  will.  I  did  not  much  mind  my  aunt.  Per- 
haps her  deference  to  my  uncle  made  me  feel  as  if  she  and  I 
were  more  on  a  level.  She  must  have  been  really  kind,  for 
she  never  resented  any  petulance  or  carelessness.  .Possibly 
she  sacrificed  her  own  feeling  to  the  love  my  uncle  bore  me ; 
but  I  think  it  was  rather  that,  because  he  cared  for  me,  she 
cared  for  me  too. 

Twice  during  every  meal  she  would  rise  from  the  table  with 
some  dish  in  her  hand,  open  the  door  behind  the  chimney,  and 
ascend  the  winding  stair. 


AT  THE  TOP  OF   THE  CUIMNEY-STAIR.  15 


CHAPTER  III. 

AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE  CHIMNEY-STAIR. 

I  FEAR  my  readers  may  have  thought  me  too  long  occupied 
with  the  explanatory  foundations  of  my  structure  :  I  shall  at 
once  proceed  to  raise  its  walls  of  narrative.  AVhatever 
further  explanations  may  be  necessary,  can  be  applied  as  but- 
tresses in  lieu  of  a  broader  base. 

One  Sunday — it  was  his  custom  of  a  Sunday — I  fancy  I 
was  then  somewhere  about  six  years  of  age — my  uncle  rose 
from  the  table  after  our  homely  dinner,  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and  led  me  to  the  dark  door  with  the  long  arrow-headed 
hinges,  and  up  the  winding  stone  stair  which  I  never  ascended 
except  with  him  or  my  aunt.  At  the  top  was  another  rugged 
door,  and  within  that,  one  covered  with  green  baize.  The  last 
opened  on  what  had  always  seemed  to  me  a  very  paradise  of  a 
room.  It  was  old-fashioned  enough  ;  but  childhood  is  of  any 
and  every  age,  and  it  was  not  old-fashioned  to  me — only  in- 
tensely cosy  and  comfortable.  The  first  thing  my  eyes  gen- 
erally rested  upon  was  an  old  bureau,  with  a  book-case  on  the 
top  of  it,  the  glass-doors  of  which  were  lined  with  faded  red 
silk.  The  next  thing  I  would  see  was  a  small  tent-bed,  with 
the  whitest  of  curtains,  and  enchanting  fringes  of  white  ball- 
tassels.  The  bed  was  covered  with  an  equally  charming 
counterpane  of  silk  patchwork.  The  next  object  was  the 
genius  of  the  place,  in  a  high,  close,  easy-chair,  covered  with 
some  dark  stuff,  against  which  her  face,  surrounded  with  its 
widow's  cap,  of  ancient  form,  but  dazzling  whiteness,  Avas 
strongly  relieved.  How  shall  I  describe  the  shrunken,  yet 
delicate,  the  gracious,  if  not  graceful  form,  and  the  face  from 
which  extreme  old  age  had  not  wasted  half  the  loveliness? 
Yet  I  always  beheld  it  with  an  indescribable  sensation,  one  of 
whose  elements  I  can  isolate  and  identify  as   a  faint  fear. 


16  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Perhaps  this  arose  partly  from  the  fact  that,  in  going  up  the 
stair,  more  than  once  my  uncle  had  said  to  me,  "  You  must 
not  mind  what  grannie  says,  Willie,  for  old  people  will  often 
speak  strange  things  that  young  people  cannot  understand. 
But  you  must  love  grannie,  for  she  is  a  very  good  old  lady." 

"  Well,  grannie,  how  are  you  to-day  ?"  said  my  uncle,  as 
we  entered,  this  particular  Sunday. 

I  may  as  well  mention  at  once  that  my  uncle  called  her 
grannie  in  his  own  right  and  not  in  mine,  for  she  was  in  truth 
my  great-grandmother. 

"  Pretty  well,  David,  I  thank  you  ;  but  much  too  long  out 
of  my  grave,"  answered  grannie;  in  no  sepulchral  tones,  hov/- 
ever,  for  her  voice,  although  weak  and  uneven,  had  a  sound 
in  it  like  that  of  one  of  the  upper  strings  of  a  violin.  The 
plaintiveness  of  it  touched  me,  and  I  crept  near  her — nearer 
than,  I  believe,  I  had  ever  yet  gone  of  my  own  will — and  laid 
my  hand  upon  hers  I  withdrew  it  instantly,  for  there  was 
something  in  the  touch  that  made  me — not  shudder,  exactly — 
but  creep.  Her  hand  was  smooth  and  soft,  and  warm  too, 
only  somehow  the  skin  of  it  seemed  dead.  With  a  quicker 
movement  than  belonged  to  her  years,  she  caught  hold  of 
mine,  which  she  kept  in  one  of  her  hands,  while  she  stroked  it 
with  the  other.  My  slight  repugnance  vanished  for  the  time, 
and  I  looked  up  in  her  face,  grateful  for  a  tenderness  which 
was  altogether  new  to  me. 

"  What  makes  you  so  long  out  of  your  grave,  grannie  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  They  won't  let  me  into  it,  my  dear." 

"  Who  won't  let  you,  grannie  ?" 

"My  own  grandson  there,  and  the  woman  down  the  stair" 

"  But  you  don't  really  want  to  go — do  you,  grannie  ?" 

"  I  do  want  to  go,  Willie.  I  ought  to  have  been  there  long 
ago.  I  am  very  old ;  so  old,  that  I've  forgotten  how  old  I 
am.     How  old  am  I  ?"     she  asked,  looking  up  at  my  uncle. 

"  Nearly  nmety-five,  grannie  ;  and  the  older  you  get  before 
you  go,  the  better  we  shall  be  pleased,  as  you  know  very 
well." 


AT   THE   TOP   OF   THE   CHIMNEY-STAIR.  17 

"  There !  I  told  you,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  not  all  of  plea- 
sure, as  she  turned  her  head  towards  me.  "  They  won't  let  me 
go.  I  want  to  go  to  my  grave,  and  they  won't  let  me!  Is  that 
an  age  at  which  to  keep  a  poor  woman  from  her  grave  ?" 

"  But  it's  not  a  nice  place,  is  it,  grannie  ?"  I  asked,  with 
the  vaguest  ideas  of  what  the  grave  meant.  "  I  think  some- 
body told  me  it  was  in  the  church-yard." 

But  neither  did  I  know  with  any  clearness  what  the  church 
itself  meant,  for  we  were  a  long  way  from  church,  and  I  had 
never  been  there  yet. 

"  Yes,  it  is  in  the  church-yard,  my  dear." 

"  Is  it  a  house,"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  a  little  house;  just  big  enough  for  one." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would." 

"  Is  it  a  nice  place,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  nicest  place  in  the  world,  when  you  get  to  be  so 
old  as  I  am.     If  they  would  only  let  me  die !" 

"Die,  grannie!"  I  exclaimed.  My  notions  of  death  as  yet 
were  derived  only  from  the  fowls  brought  from  the  farm,  with 
their  necks  hanging  down  long  and  limp,  and  their  heads 
waggling  hither  and  thither. 

"  Come,  grannie,  you  mustn't  frighten  our  little  man,"  in- 
terposed my  uncle,  looking  kindly  at  us  both. 

"David!"  said  grannie,  with  a  reproachful  dignity,  "you 
know  what  I  mean  well  enough.  You  know  that  until  I  have 
done  what  I  have  to  do,  the  grave  that  is  waiting  for  me  will 
not  open  its  mouth  to  receive  me.  If  you  will  only  allow  me 
to  do  what  I  have  to  do,  I  shall  .not  trouble  you  long.  Oh 
dear  !  oh  dear !"  she  broke  out,  moaning,  and  rocking  herself 
to  and  fro,  "  I  am  too  old  to  weep,  and  they  will  not  let  me  to 
my  bed.     I  want  to  go  to  bed.     I  want  to  go  to  sleep." 

She  moaned  and  complained  like  a  child.  My  uncle  went 
near  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Come,  come,  dear  grannie !"  he  said,  "  you  must  not 
behave  like  this.     You  know  all  things  are  for  the  best." 

"To  keep  a  corpse  out  of  its  grave!"  retorted  the  old  lady, 
2 


18  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

almost  fiercely,  only  she  Wcos  too  old  and  -vreak  to  be  fierca 
"  Why  should  you  keep  a  soul  that's  longing  to  depart  and  go 
to  its  own  peoi)le,  lingering  on  in  the  coffin?  What  better 
than  a  coffin  is  this  withered  body  ?  The  child  is  old  enough 
to  understand  nie.  Leave  him  wdth  me  for  half  an  hour,  and 
I  shall  trouble  you  no  longer.  I  shall  at  least  wait  my  end 
in  peace.     But  I  think  I  should  die  before  the  morning." 

Ere  grannie  had  finished  this  sentence,  I  had  shrunk  from 
her  again  and  retreated  behind  my  uncle. 

"  There !"  she  went  on,  "  you  make  my  own  child  fear  me. 
Don't  be  frightened,  Willie  dear ;  your  old  mother  is  not  a 
wild  beast ;  she  loves  you  dearly.  Only  my  grand-children 
are  so  undutiful !  They  will  not  let  my  own  son  come  near 
me. 

How  I  recall  this  I  do  not  know,  for  I  could  not  have 
understood  it  at  the  time.  The  fact  is  that  during  the  last 
few  years  I  have  found  pictures  of  the  past  returning  upon 
me  in  the  most  vivid  and  unaccountable  manner,  so  much  so 
as  almost  to  alarm  me.  Things  I  had  utterly  forgotten — or 
so  far  at  least  that  when  they  return  they  must  appear  only  as 
vivid  imaginations,  were  it  not  for  a  certain  conviction  of  fact 
which  accompanies  them — are  constantly  dawning  out  of  the 
past.  Can  it  be  that  the  decay  of  the  observant  faculties 
allows  the  memory  to  revive  and  gather  force  ?  But  I  must 
refrain,  for  my  business  is  to  narrate,  not  to  speculate. 

My  uncle  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  turned  to  leave  the 
room.  I  cast  one  look  at  grannie  as  he  led  me  away.  She 
had  thrown  her  head  back  on  her  chair,  and  her  eyes  were 
closed;  but  her  face  looked  offended,  almost  angry.  She 
looked  to  my  fancy  as  if  she  were  trying  but  unable  to  lie 
dowm.  My  uncle  closed  the  doors  very  gently.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  stair  he  stopped,  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Willie,  do  you  know  that  when  people  grow  very  old,  they 
are  not  quite  like  other  people  ?" 

"  Yes.     They  want  to  go  to  the  church-yard,"  I  answered. 

"  They  fancy  things,"  said  my  uncle.  "  Grannie  thinks  you 
are  her  own  son." 


AT   THE   TOP   OF   THE   CHIMNEY-STAIR.  19 

"  And  ain't  I  ?"  I  asked  innocently. 

"  Not  exactly,"  he  answered.  "  Your  father  was  her  son's 
son.  She  forgets  that,  and  wants  to  talk  to  you  as  if  you 
were  your  grandfather.  Poor  old  Grannie !  I  don't  wish  you 
to  go  and  see  her  without  your  aunt  or  me:  mind  that.'* 

Whether  I  made  any  promise  I  do  not  remember ;  but  I 
know  that  a  new  something  was  mingled  with  my  life  from 
that  moment.  An  air  as  it  were  of  the  tomb  mingled  hence- 
forth with  the  homely  delights  of  my  life.  Grannie  wanted 
to  die,  and  uncle  would  not  let  her.  She  longed  for  her 
grave,  and  they  would  kee^^  her  above  ground.  And  from 
the  feeling  that  grannie  ought  to  be  buried,  grew  an  awful 
sense  that  she  was  not  alive— not  alive,  that  is,  as  other  people 
are  alive,  and  a  gulf  was  fixed  between  her  and  me  which  for 
a  long  time  I  never  attempted  to  pass,  avoiding  as  much  as  I 
could  all  communication  with  her,  even  when  my  uncle  or 
aunt  wished  to  take  me  to  her  room.  They  did  not  seem  dis- 
pleased, however,  when  I  objected,  and  not  always  insisted  on 
obedience. 

Thus  affairs  went  on  in  our  quiet  household  for  what  seemed 
to  me  a  very  long  time. 


20  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   PENDULUM. 

It  may  have  been  a  year  after  this,  it  may  have  been  two, 
I  cannot  tell,  when  the  next  great  event  in  my  life  occurred. 
I  think  it  was  towards  the  close  of  an  autumn,  but  there  was 
not  so  much  about  our  house  as  elsewhere  to  mark  the 
changes  of  the  seasons,  for  the  grass  was  always  green.  I 
remember  it  was  a  sultry  afternoon.  I  had  been  out  almost 
the  whole  day,  wandering  hither  and  thither  over  the  grass, 
and  I  felt  hot  and  oppressed.  Not  an  air  was  stirring.  I 
longed  for  a  breath  of  wind,  for  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  wind 
itself,  only  of  the  trees  that  made  it.  Indeed,  I  delighted  in 
the  wind,  and  would  run  against  it  with  exuberant  pleasure, 
even  rejoicing  in  the  fancy  that  I,  as  well  as  the  trees,  could 
make  the  wind  by  shaking  my  hair  about  as  I  ran.  I  must 
run,  however  ;  whereas  the  trees,  whose  prime  business  it  was, 
could  do  it  without  stirring  from  the  spot.  But  this  was 
much  too  hot  an  afternoon  for  me,  whose  mood  was  always 
more  inclined  to  the  passive  than  the  active,  to  run  about 
and  toss  my  hair,  even  for  the  sake  of  the  breeze  that  would 
result  therefrom.  I  bethought  myself.  I  was  nearly  a  man 
now ;  I  would  be  afraid  of  things  no  more  ;  I  would  get  out 
my  pendulum,  and  see  whether  that  would  not  help  me.  Not 
this  time  would  I  flinch  from  what  consequences  might  follow. 
Let  them  be  what  they  might,  the  pendulum  should  wag,  and 
have  a  fair  chance  of  doing  its  best. 

I  went  up  to  my  room,  a  sense  of  high  emprise  filling  my 
little  heart.  Composedly,  yea  solemnly,  I  set  to  work,  even  as 
some  enchanter  of  old  might  have  drawn  his  circle,  and 
chosen  his  spell  out  of  his  iron-clasped  volume.  I  strode  to 
the  closet  in  which  the  awful  instrument  dwelt.  It  stood  in 
the  farthest  corner.      As  I  lifted  it,  something  like  a  groan 


"I    SAT    AND    WATCHED    IT    WITH    GROWING    AWE." 


THE   PENDULUM.  21 

invaded  my  ear.  My  notions  of  locality  were  not  then  suffi- 
ciently developed  to  let  me  kuoAv  that  grannie's  room  was  on 
the  other  side  of  that  closet.  I  almost  let  the  creature,  for  as 
such  I  regarded  it,  drop.  I  was  uot  to  be  deterred,  however. 
I  bore  it  carefully  to  the  light,  and  set  it  gently  on  the  wiu- 
dow-sill,,  full  in  view  of  the  distant  trees  towards  the  west.  I 
left  it  then  for  a  moment,  as  if  that  it  might  gather  its 
strength  for  its  unw^onted  labors,  while  I  closed  the  door,  and, 
with  what  fancy  I  can  scarcely  imagine  now%  the  curtains  of 
my  bed  as  well.  Possibly  it  was  with  some  notion  of  having 
one  place  to  which,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  I  might 
retreat  ibr  safety.  Again  I  approached  the  window,  and  after 
standing  for  some  time  in  contemplation  of  the  pendulum,  I 
set  it  in  motion,  and  stood  watching  it. 

It  swung  slower  and  slower.  It  wanted  to  stop.  It  should 
not  stop.  I  gave  it  another  swing.  On  it  went,  at  first  some- 
what distractedly,  next  more  regularly,  then  with  slowly  re- 
tarding movement.     But  it  should  not  stop. 

I  turned  in  haste  and  got  from  the  side  of  my  bed  the  only 
chair  in  the  room,  placed  it  in  the  window,  sat  down  before 
the  reluctant  instrument  and  gave  it  a  third  swing.  Then, 
my  elbows  on  the  sill,  I  sat  and  watched  it  with  growing  awe, 
but  growing  determination  as  well.  Once  more  it  showed 
signs  of  refusal ;  once  more  the  forefinger  of  my  right  hand 
administered  impulse. 

Something  gave  a  crack  inside  the  creature :  away  went  the 
pendulum  swinging  with  a  will.  I  sat  and  gazed,  almost  hor- 
ror-stricken. Ere  many  moments  had  passed,  the  feeling  of 
terror  had  risen  to  such  a  height  that,  for  the  very  terror,  I 
would  have  seized  the  pendulum  in  a  frantic  grasp  I  did 
not.  On  it  went,  and  I  sat  looking.  My  dismay  was  grad- 
ually subsiding. 

I  have  learned  since  that  a  certain  ancestor — or  was  he 
only  a  great-uncle? — I  forget — had  a  taste  for  mechanics, 
even  to  the  craze  of  perpetual  motion,  and  could  work  well  in 
brass  and  iron.  The  creature  was  probably  some  mvention 
of  his.     It  was  a   real  marvel,  how,  after  so  many  years   of 


22  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

idleness,  it  could  uow  go  as  it  did.  I  confess,  as  I  contem- 
plate the  thing,  I  am  in  a  puzzle,  and  almost  fancy  the  whole 
a  dream.  But  let  it  pass.  At  worst,  something  of  which  this 
is  the  sole  representative  residuum,  wrought  an  efiect  on  me 
which  embodicvS  its  cause  thus,  as  I  search  for  it  in  the  past. 
And  why  should  not  the  individual  life  have  its  misty  legends 
as  well  as  that  of  nations?  From  them,  as  from  the  golden 
and  rosy  clouds  of  morning,  dawns  at  last  the  true  sun  of  its 
un(|Ucstionable  history.  Every  boy  has  his  own  fables,  just  as 
the  Romes  and  the  Englands  of  the  world  have  their  Romuli 
and  their  Arthurs,  their  suckling  wolves  and  their  granite- 
sheathed  swords.  Do  they  not  reflect  each  other  ?  I  tell  the 
tale  as  'tis  left  in  me. 

IIow  long  I  sat  thus  gazing  at  the  now  self-impelled  instru- 
ment, I  cannot  say.  The  next  point  in  the  progress  of  the 
legend  is  a  gust  of  w^nd  rattling  the  window  in  whose  recess  I 
was  seated.  I  jumped  from  my  chair  in  terror.  While  I 
had  been  absorbed  in  the  pendulum,  the  evening  had  closed 
in :  clouds  had  gathered  over  the  sky,  and  all  was  gloomy 
about  the  house.  It  was  much  too  dark  to  see  the  distant 
trees,  but  there  could  be  no  doubt  they  were  at  work.  The 
pendulum  had  roused  them.  Another,  a  third,  and  a  fourth 
gust  rattled  and  shook  the  rickety  frame.  I  had  done  it  at 
last !  The  trees  were  busy  away  there  in  the  darkness.  I 
and  my  pendulum  could  make  the  wind. 

The  gusts  came  faster  and  faster,  and  grew  into  blasts 
which  settled  into  a  steady  gale.  The  pendulum  went  on 
swinging  to  and  fro,  and  the  gale  went  on  increasing  in  vio- 
lence. I  sat  half  in  terror,  half  in  delight  at  the  awful  success 
of  my  experiment.  I  would  have  opened  the  window  to  let 
in  the  coveted  air,  but  that  was  beyond  my  knowledge  and 
strength.  I  could  make  the  wind  blow,  bnt,  like  other  magi- 
cians, I  could  not  share  its  benefits.  I  would  go  out  and  meet 
it  on  the  open  plain.  I  crept  down  the  stair  like  a  thief— not 
that  I  feared  detention,  but  that  I  felt  such  a  sense  of  the  im- 
portant, even  the  dread,  about  myself  and  ray  instrument,  that 
I  was  not  in  harmony  with  souls  reflecting  only  the  common 


THE   PENDULUM.  23 

affairs  of  life.  In  a  moment  I  was  in  the  middle  of  the  storm — 
for  storm  it  very  nearly  was  and  soon  became.  I  rushed  to 
and  fro  in  the  midst  of  it,  lay  down  and  rolled  in  it,  and 
laughed  and  shouted  as  I  looked  up  to  the  window  where  the 
pendulum  was  swinging,  and  thought  of  the  trees  at  work 
away  in  the  dark.  The  wind  grew  stronger  and  stronger.  What 
if  the  pendulum  should  not  stop  at  all,  and  the  wind  went  on 
and  on,  growing  louder  and  fiercer,  till  it  grew  mad  and  blew 
away  the  house  ?  Ah,  then,  poor  grannie  would  have  a  chance 
of  being  buried  at  last!  Seriously,  the  affair  might  grow 
serious. 

Such  thoughts  were  passing  in  my  mind,  when  all  at  once 
the  wind  gave  a  roar  which  made  me  spring  to  my  feet  and 
rush  for  the  house.  I  must  stop  the  pendulum.  There  was  a 
strange  sound  in  that  blast.  The  trees  themselves  had  had 
enough  of  it,  and  were  protesting  against  the  creature's 
tyranny.  Their  master  was  working  them  too  hard.  I  ran 
up  the  stair  on  all  fours :  it  was  my  way  when  I  was  in  a 
hurry.  Swinging  went  the  pendulum  in  the  window,  and  the 
wind  roared  in  the  chimney.  I  seized  hold  of  the  oscillating 
thing,  and  stopped  it ;  but  to  my  amaze  and  consternation,  the 
moment  I  released  it,  on  it  went  again.  I  must  sit  and-  hold 
it.  But  the  voice  of  my  atint  called  me  from  below,  and  as 
I  dared  not  explain  why  I  would  rather  not  appear,  I  was 
forced  to  obey.  I  lingered  on  the  stair,  half  minded  to  return. 
"  What  a  rough  night  it  is  !  "  I  heard  my  aunt  say,  with 
rare  remark. 

"  It  gets  worse  and  worse,"  responded  my  uncle.  "  I  hope 
it  won't  disturb  grannie ;  but  the  wind  must  roar  fearfully  in 
her  chimney." 

I  stood  like  a  culprit.  What  if  they  should  find  out  that 
I  was  at  the  root  of  the  mischief,  at  the  heart  of  the  storm. 

"  If  I  could  believe  all  I  have  been  reading  to-night  about 
the  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air,  I  should  not  like  this 
storm  at  all,"  continued  my  uncle,  with  a  smile.  "  But  books 
are  not  always  to  be  trusted  because  they  are  old,"  he  added 
with  another  smile.    "  From  the  glass,  I  expected  rain  not  wind." 


24  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Whatever  wind  there  is,  we  get  it  all,"  said  my  aunt. 
"  I  wonder  what  AVillie  is  about.  I  thought  I  heard  him 
coming  down.  Isn't  it  time,  David,  we  did  something  about 
Lis  schooling  ?  It  won't  do  to  have  him  idling  about  this  way- 
all  day  long." 

"  He's  a  mere  child,"  returned  my  uncle.  "  I'm  not  forget- 
ting him.     But  I  can't  send  him  away  yet." 

"  You  know  best,"  returned  my  aunt. 

Send  me  away  I  AVhat  could  it  mean  ?  Why  should  I — 
where  should  I  go  ?  Was  not  the  old  place  a  part  of  me,  just 
like  my  own  clothes  on  my  own  body  ?  This  was  the  kind  of 
feeling  that  woke  in  me  at  the  words.  But  hearing  my  aunt 
push  back  her  chair,  evidently  with  the  purpose  of  finding  me, 
I  descended  into  the  room. 

"  Come  along,  Willie,"  said  my  uncle.  "  Hear  the  wind,  how 
it  roars ! " 

"  Yes,  uncle  ;  it  does  roar,"  I  said,  feeling  a  hypocrite  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life.  Knowing  far  more  about  the  roar- 
ing than  he  did,  I  yet  spoke  like  an  innocent. 

"  Do  you  know  who  makes  the  wind,  Willie  ? 

"  Yes.     The  trees,"  I  answered. 

My  uncle  opened  his  blue  eyes  very  wide,  and  looked  at  my 
aunt.  He  had  no  idea  what  a  little  heathen  I  was.  The  more 
a  man  has  wrought  out  his  own  mental  condition,  the  readier 
he  is  to  suppose  that  children  must  be  able  to  work  out  theirs, 
and  to  forget  that  he  did  not  work  out  his  information,  but 
only  his  conclusions.  My  uncle  began  to  think  it  was  time 
to  take  me  in  hand. 

"  No,  Willie,"  he  said.  "  I  must  teach  you  better  than 
that." 

I  expected  him  to  begin  by  telling  me  that  God  made  the 
wind  ;  but,  whether  it  was  that  what  the  old  book  said  about 
the  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air  returned  upon  him,  or 
that  he  thought  it  an  unfitting  occasion  for  such  a  lesson  when 
the  wind  was  roaring  so  as  to  render  its  divine  origin  ques- 
tionable, he  said  no  more.  Bewildered,  I  fancy,  with  my 
ignorance,  he  turned  after  a  pause,  to  my  aunt. 


THE   PENDULUM.  25 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  time  for  him  to  go  to  bed,  Jane  ?"  he 
suggested. 

My  aunt  replied  by  getting  from  the  cu23board  my  usual 
supper — a  basin  of  milk  and  a  slice  of  bread ;  which  I  ate 
with  less  circumspection  than  usual,  for  I  was  eager  to  return 
to  my  room.  As  soon  as  I  had  finished,  Kannie  was  called, 
and  I  bade  them  good-night. 

"  Make  haste,  Nannie,"  I  said.  "  Don't  you  hear  how  the 
wind  is  roaring  ?  " 

It  was  roaring  louder  than  ever,  and  there  was  the  pendulum 
swinging  away  in  the  window\     Nannie  took  no  notice  of  it, 
and,  I  presume,  only  thought  I  wanted  to  get  my  head  under 
the  bed-clothes,  and  so  escape  the  sound  of  it.     Anyhow,  she 
did  make  haste,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  I  was,  as  she  sup- 
posed, snugly  settled  for  the  night.     But  the  moment  she  shut 
the  door  I  was  out  of  bed  and  at  the  window.     The  instant 
I  reached  it,  a  great  dash  of  rain  swept  against  the  panes,  and 
the  wind  howled  more  fiercely  than  ever.     Believing  I  had 
the  key  of  the  position,  inasmuch  as,  if  I  pleased,  I  could  take 
the  pendulum  to  bed  with  me,  and  stifle  its  motions  with  the 
bed-clothes — for  this  happy  idea  had  daw^ned  upon  me  while 
Nannie  was  undressing  me — I  w^as  composed  enough  now  to 
press  my  face  to  a  pane  and  look  out.     There  was  a  small 
space  amid  the  storm  dimly  illuminated  from  the  windows 
below,   and    the    moment    I    looked — out    of   the   darkness 
into    this   dim    space,    as   if  blown    thither   by     the     wind, 
rushed  a  figure  on  horseback,  his  large  cloak  flying  out  before 
him,  and  the  mane  of  the  animal  he  rode  streaming  out  over 
his  ears  in  the  fiei'ceness  of  the  blast.     He  pulled  up  right 
under  my  window,  and  I  thought  he  looked  up,  and  made 
threatening  gestures  at  me ;  but  I  believe  now  that  horse  and 
man  pulled  up  in  sudden  danger  of  dashing  against  the  wall  of 
the  house.     I  shrank   back,  and  when  I  peeped  out  again 
he  was  gone.     The  same  moment  the  pendulum  gave  a  click 
and  stopped  ;  one  more  rattle  of  rain  against  the  windows,  and 
then  the  wind  stopped  also.     I  crept  back  to  my  bed  in  a  new 
terror,  for  might  not  this  be  the  Prince   of  the  Power  of  the 


26  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Air,  come  to  see  who  was  meddling  w^itli  his  affairs?  Had  he 
not  come  right  out  of  the  storm,  aud  straight  from  the  trees  ?  He 
must  have  something  to  do  with  it  all !  Before  I  had  settled 
the  probabilities  of  the  question,  however,  I  was  fast  asleep. 

I  awoke — how  long  after,  I  cannot  tell — with  the  sound  of 
voices  in  my  ears.  It  was  still  dark.  The  voices  came  from 
below.  I  had  been  dreaming  of  the  strange  horseman,  who 
had  turned  out  to  be  the  awful  being  concerning  whom  Nan- 
nie had  enlightened  me  as  going  about  at  night,  to  buy  little 
children  from  their  nurses,  and  make  bagpipes  of  their  skins. 
Awaked  from  such  a  dream,  it  was  impossible  to  lie  still  with- 
out knowing  what  those  voices  down  below  were  talking 
about.  The  strange  one  must  belong  to  the  being,  whatever 
he  was,  whom  I  had  seen  come  out  of  the  storm ;  and  of 
whom  could  they  be  talking  but  me  ?  I  was  right  in  both 
conclusions. 

With  a  fearful  resolution,  1  slipped  out  of  bed,  opened  the 
door  as  noiselessly  as  I  might,  and  crept  on  my  bare,  silent 
feet  down  the  creaking  stair,  which  led,  with  open  balustrade, 
right  into  the  kitchen,  at  the  end  farthest  from  the  chimney. 
The  one  candle  at  the  other  end  could  not  illuminate  its  dark- 
ness, and  I  sat  unseen,  a  few  steps  from  the  bottom  of  the 
stair,  listening  with  all  my  ears  and  staring  with  all  my  eyes. 
The  stranger's  huge  cloak  hung  drying  before  the  fire,  and  he 
was  drinking  something  out  of  a  tumbler.  The  light  fell  full 
upon  his  face.  It  was  a  curious,  and  certainly  not  to  me  an 
attractive  face.  The  forehead  was  very  projecting,  and  the 
eyes  were  very  small,  deep  set,  and  sparkling.  The  mouth — 
I  had  almost  said  muzzle — was  very  projecting  likewise,  and 
the  lower  jaw  shot  in  front  of  the  upper.  When  the  man 
smiled  the  light  was  reflecting  from  what  seemed  to  my  eyes 
an  inordinate  multitude  of  white  teeth.  His  ears  were  narrow 
and  long,  and  set  very  high  upon  his  head.  The  hand,  which 
he  every  now  and  then  displayed  in  the  exigencies  of  his 
persuasion,  was  white,  but  very  large,  and  the  thumb  was 
exceedingly  long.  I  had  weighty  reasons  for  both  suspecting 
and  fearing  the  man ;  and,  leaving  my  prejudices  out  of  the 


THE   PENDULUM.  27 

question,  there  was  in  the  conversation  itself  enough  besides 
to  make  me  take  note  of  dangerous  points  in  his  appearance. 
I  never  could  lay  much  claim  to  physical  courage,  and  I 
attribute  my  behaviour  on  this  occasion  rather  to  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  terror  than  to  any  impulse  of  self-preservation ; 
I  sat  there  in  utter  silence,  listening  like  an  ear-trumpet.  The 
first  words  I  could  distinguish  were  to  this  effect : — 

"You  do  not  mean,"  said  the  enemy,  "to  tell  me,  Mr. 
Curabermede,  that  you  intend  to  bring  up  the  young  fellow  in 
absolute  ignorance  of  the  decrees  of  fate  T* 

"  I  pledge  myself  to  nothing  in  the  matter,"  returned  my 
uncle,  calmly,  but  with  a  something  in  his  tone  which  was 
new  to  me. 

"  Good  heavens !"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Excuse  me,  sir, 
but  what  right  can  you  have  to  interfere  after  such  a  serious 
fashion  with  the  young  gentleman's  future  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  my  uncle,  "  that  you  wish  to  inter- 
fere with  it  after  a  much  more  serious  fashion.  There  are 
things  in  which  ignorance  may  be  preferable  to  knowledge." 

"  But  what  harm  could  the  knowledge  of  such  a  fact  do 
him?" 

"  Upset  all  his  notions,  render  him  incapable  of  thinking 
about  anything  of  importance,  occasion  an  utter " 

"  But  can  anything  be  more  important  ?"  interrupted  the 
visitor. 

My  uncle  went  on  without  heeding  him. 

"  Plunge  him  over  head  and  ears  in " 

"  Hot  water,  I  grant  you,"  again  interrupted  the  enemy,  to 
my  horror ;  "  but  it  wouldn't  be  for  long.  Only  give  me  your 
sanction,  and  I  promise  you  to  have  the  case  as  tight  as  a 
drum  before  I  ask  you  to  move  a  step  in  it." 

"  But  why  should  you  take  so  much  interest  in  what  is 
purely  our  affair  ?"  asked  my  uncle. 

"  Why,  of  course,  you  would  have  to  pay  the  piper,"  said 
the  man. 

This  was  too  much !  Pay  the  man  that  played  upon  me 
after  I  was  made  into  bagpipes  !     The  idea  was  too  frightful. 


28  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"I  must  look  out  for  business,  you  know;  and,  by  Jove!  I 
shall  never  have  such  a  chance,  if  I  live  to  the  age  of  Me- 
thusehih." 

""Well,  you  shall  not  have  it  from  me." 

"Then,"  said  the  man,  rising,  "you  are  more  of  a  fool  than 
I  took  you  for." 

"  Sir  !"  said  my  uncle. 

"  No  offence ;  no  offence,  I  assure  you.  But  it  is  provoking 
to  find  people  so  blind — so  wilfully  blind — to  their  own  inter- 
est. You  may  say  I  have  nothing  to  lose.  Give  me  the  boy, 
and  I'll  bring  him  up  like  my  o^\ti  son ;  send  him  to  school 
and  college,  too — all  on  the  chance  of  being  repaid  twice  over 
by " 

I  knew  this  was  all  a  trick  to  get  hold  of  my  skin.  The 
man  said  it  on  his  way  to  the  door,  his  ape-face  shining  dim 
as  he  turned  it  a  little  back  in  the  direction  of  my  uncle,  who 
followed  w4th  the  candle.  I  lost  the  last  part  of  the  sentence 
in  the  terror  which  sent  me  bounding  up  the  stair  in  my  usual 
four-footed  fashion.  I  leaped  into  my  bed,  shaking  with  cold 
and  agony  combined.  But  I  had  the  satisfaction  jiresently  of 
hearing  the  thud  of  the  horse's  hoofs  upon  the  sward,  dying 
away  in  the  direction  whence  they  had  come.  After  that  I 
soon  fell  asleep. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  I  never  set  the  pendulum  swinging 
again.  Many  years  after,  I  came  upon  it  when  searching  for 
papers,  and  the  thrill  which  vibrated  through  my  whole 
frame,  announced  a  strange  and  unwelcome  presence  long 
before  my  memory  could  recall  its  origin. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  pretend  to  remember  all 
the  conversation  I  have  just  set  down.  The  words  are  but  the 
forms  in  which,  enlightened  by  facts  which  have  since  come  to 
my  knowledge,  I  clothe  certain  vague  memories  and  impres- 
sions of  such  an  interview  as  certainly  took  place. 

In  the  morning  at  breakfast,  my  aunt  asked  my  uncle  who 
it  was  that  paid  such  an  untimely  visit  the  preceding  night. 

"  A  fellow  from  C— — "  (the  county  town),  "  an  attorney 
— what  did  he  say  his  name  was?    Yes,  I  remember.    It 


THE  PENDULUM.  29 

was  the  same  as  the  steward's  over  the  way.  Coningham,  it 
was." 

"Mr.  Coningham  has  a  son  there — an  attorney  too,  I 
think,"  said  my  aunt. 

My  uncle  seemed  struck  by  the  reminder,  and  became  medi- 
tative. 

"  That  explains  his  choosing  sUch  a  night  to  come  in.  His 
father  is  getting  an  old  man  now.     Yes,  it  must  be  the  same." 

"  He's  a  sharp  one,  folk  say,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  pointed- 
ness  in  the  remark  which  showed  some  anxiety. 

"  That  he  cannot  conceal,  sharp  as  he  is,"  said  ray  uncle, 
and  there  the  conversation  stopped. 

The  very  next  evening  my  uncle  began  to  teach  me.  I  had 
a  vague  notion  that  this  had  something  to  do  with  my  protec- 
tion against  the  machinations  of  the  man  Coningham,  the  idea 
of  whom  was  inextricably  associated  in  my  mind  with  that  of 
the  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air,  darting  from  the  midst  of 
the  churning  trees,  on  a  horse  whose  streaming  mane  and 
flashing  eyes  indicated  no  true  equine  origin.  I  gave  myself 
with  diligence  to  the  work  my  uncle  set  me. 


30  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  V. 


I  HAVE   LESSONS. 


It  is  a  simple  fact  that  up  to  this  time  I  did  not  know  my 
letters.  It  was,  I  believe,  part  of  mj  uncle's  theory  of  educa- 
tion, that  as  little  pain  as  possible  should  be  associated  with 
merely  intellectual  effort :  he  would  not  allow  me,  therefore, 
to  commence  my  studies  until  the  task  of  learning  should  be 
an  easy  one.  Henceforth,  every  evening,  after  tea,  he  took 
me  to  his  own  room,  the  walls  of  which  were  nearly  covered 
with  books,  and  there  taught  me. 

One  peculiar  instance  of  his  mode  I  will  give,  and  let  it 
stand  rather  as  a  pledge  for  the  rest  of  his  system  than  an  in- 
dex to  it.  It  was  only  the  other  day  it  came  back  to  me. 
Like  Jean  Paul,  he  would  utter  the  name  of  God  to  a  child 
only  at  grand  moments ;  but  there  wat,  a  great  difference  in 
the  moments  the  two  men  would  have  chosen.  Jean  Paul 
would  choose  a  thunder-storm,  for  instance ;  the  following  will 
show  the  kind  of  my  uncle's  choice.  One  Sunday  evening  he 
took  me  for  a  longer  walk  than  usual.  We  had  climbed  a 
little  hill :  I  believe  it  was  the  first  time  I  ever  had  a  wide 
view  of  the  earth.  The  horses  were  all  loose  in  the  fields ; 
the  cattle  were  gathering  their  supper  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
there  was  an  indescribable  hush  in  the  air,  as  if  Nature  her- 
self knew  the  seventh  day ;  there  was  no  sound  even  of  water, 
for  here  the  water  crept  slowly  to  the  far-off  sea,  and  the  slant 
sunlight  shone  back  from  just  one  bend  of  a  canal-like  river ; 
the  haystacks  and  ricks  of  the  last  year  gleamed  golden  in  the 
farm-yards ;  great  fields  of  wheat  stood  up  stately  around  us, 
the  glow  in  their  yellow  brought  out  by  the  red  poppies  that 
sheltered  in  the  forest  of  their  stems ;  the  odor  of  the  grass 
and  clover  came  in  pulses;  and  the  soft  blue  sky  was  fiecked 
with  white  clouds  tinged  with  pink,  which  deepened  until  it 


I   HAVE   LESSONS.  81 

gathered  into  a  flaming  rose  in  the  west,  where  the  sun  was 
welling  out  oceans  of  liquid  red. 

I  looked  up  in  my  uncle's  face.  It  shone  in  a  calm  glow, 
like  an  answering,  rosy  moon.  The  eyes  of  my  mind  were 
opened :  I  saw  that  he  felt  something,  and  then  I  felt  it  too. 
His  soul,  with  the  glory  for  an  interpreter,  kindled  mine. 
He,  in  turn,  caught  the  sight  of  my  face,  and  his  soul  broke 
forth  in  one  word  : — 

"God!  Willie;  God!"  was  all  he  said;  and  surely  it  was 
enough. 

It  was  only  then,  in  moments  of  strong  repose,  that  my 
uncle  spoke  to  me  of  God. 

Although  he  never  petted  me,  that  is,  never  showed  me  any 
animal  affection,  my  uncle  was  like  a  father  to  me  in  this,  that 
he  was  about  and  above  me,  a  pure  benevolence.  It  is  nc 
wonder  that  I  should  learn  rapidly  under  his  teaching,  for  1 
was  quick  enough,  and  possessed  the  more  energy  that  it  had 
not  been  wasted  on  unpleasant  tasks. 

Whether  from  indifference  or  intent  I  cannot  tell,  but  he 
never  forbade  me  to  touch  any  of  his  books.  Upon  more 
occasions  than  one  he  found  me  on  the  floor  w^ith  a  folio 
between  my  knees  ;  but  he  only  smiled  and  said —  ^ 

"  Ah,  Willie !  mind  you  don't  crumple  the  leaves." 

About  this  time  also  I  had  a  new  experience  of  another 
kind,  which  impressed  me  almost  with  the  force  of  a  re- 
velation. 

I  had  not  yet  explored  the  boundaries  of  the  prairie-like 
level  on  which  I  found  myself.  As  soon  as  I  got  about  a 
certain  distance  from  home,  I  always,  turned  and  ran  back. 
Fear  is  sometimes  the  first  recognition  of  freedom.  Delight- 
ing in  liberty,  I  yet  shrunk  from  the  unknown  spaces  around 
me,  and  rushed  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  home-walls.  But 
as  I  grew  older  I  became  more  adventurous  ;  and  one  evening, 
although  the  shadows  were  beginning  to  lengthen,  I  went  on 
and  on  until  I  made  a  discovery.  I  found  a  half-spherical 
hollow  in  the  grassy  surface.  I  rushed  into  its  depth  as  if  it 
had  been  a  mine  of  marvels,  threw  myself  on  the  ground,  and 


32  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

gazed  into  the  sky  as  if  I  had  now  for  the  first  time  disco\ 
ered  its  true  relation  to  the  earth.     The  earth  was  a  cup,  and 
the  sky  its  cover. 

There  were  lovely  daisies  in  this  hollow — not  too  many  to 
spoil  the  grass,  and  they  were  red-tipped  daisies.  There  was 
besides,  in  the  very  heart  of  it,  one  plant  of  the  finest  pim- 
pernels I  have  ever  seen,  and  this  was  my  introduction  to  the 
flower.  Nor  were  these  all  the  treasures  of  the  spot.  A  late 
primrose,  a  tiny  child,  born  out  of  due  time,  opened  its  timid 
petals  in  the  same  hollow.  Here  then  vrere  gathered  red- 
tipped  daisies,  large  pimpernels,  and  one  tiny  primrose.  I  lay 
and  looked  at  them  in  delight — not  at  all  inclined  to  pull 
them,  for  they  were  where  I  loved  to  see  them.  I  never  had 
much  inclination  to  gather  flowers.  I  see  them  as  a  part  of  a 
whole,  and  rejoice  in  them  in  their  own  place  without  any 
desire  to  appropriate  them.  I  lay  and  looked  at  these  for  a 
long  time.  Perhaps  I  fell  asleep.  I  do  not  know.  I  have 
often  waked  in  the  open  air.  Ail  at  once  I  looked  up  and 
saw  a  vision. 

My  reader  will  please  to  remember  that  up  to  this  hour  I 
had  never  seen  a  lady.  I  cannot  by  any  stretch  call  my 
worthy  aunt  a  lady ;  and  my  grandmother  was  too  old,  and 
too  much  an  object  of  mysterious  anxiety,  to  produce  the 
impression  of  a  lady  upon  me.  Suddenly  I  became  aware 
that  a  lady  was  looking  down  on  me.  Over  the  edge  of  my 
horizon,  the  circle  of  the  hollow  that  touched  the  sky,  her 
face  shone  Ijke  a  rising  moon.  Sweet  eyes  looked  on  me,  and 
a  sweet  mouth  was  tremulous  with  a  smile.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  her.  To  my  childish  eyes  she  was  much 
what  a  descended  angel  must  have  been  to  eyes  of  old,  in  the 
days  when  angels  did  descend,  and  there  were  Arabs  or  Jews 
on  the  earth  who  could  see  them.  A  new  knowledge  dawned 
in  me.  I  lay  motionless,  looking  up  with  worship  in  my 
heart.  As  suddenly  she  vanished.  I  lay  far  into  the 
twilight,  and  then  rose  and  went  home,  half  bewildered,  with 
a  sense  of  heaven  about  me  which  settled  into  the  fancy  that 
my  mother  had  come  to  see  me.     I  wondered  afterwards  that 


I   HAVE   LESSONS.  33 

I  had  not  followed  her  ;  but  I  never  forgot  her,  and,  morning, 
mid-day,  or  evening,  whenever  the  fit  seized  me,  I  would 
wander  away  and  lie  down  in  the  hollow,  gazing  at  the  spot 
w^iere  the  lovely  face  had  arisen,  in  the  fancy,  hardly  in  the 
hope,  that  my  moon  might  once  more  ari§e  and  bless  me  with 
her  vision. 

Hence  I  suppose  came  another  habit  of  mine,  that  of 
watching  in  the  same  hollow,  and  in  the  same  posture,  now  for 
the  sun,  now  for  the  mooo,  but  generally  for  the  sun.  You 
might  have  taken  me  for  a  fire-worshipper,  so  eagerly  would  I 
rise,  when  the  desire  came  upon  me,  so  hastily  in  the  clear 
gray  of  the  morning,  would  I  dress  myself,  lest  the  sun  should 
be  up  before  me,  and  I  fail  to  catch  his  first  lance-like  rays 
dazzling  through  the  forest  of  grass  on  the  edge  of  my  hollow 
world.  Bare-footed  I  would  scud  like  a  hare  through  the 
dew,  heedless  of  the  sweet  air  of  the  morning,  heedless  of  the 
few  bird-songs  about  me,  heedless  even  of  the  east,  whose 
safii'on  might  just  be  burning  into  gold,  as  I  ran  to  gain  the 
green  hollow  whence  alone  I  would  greet  the  morning. 
Arrived  there,  I  shot  into  its  shelter,  and  threw  myself 
panting  on  the  grass,  to  gaze  on  the  spot  at  which  I  expected 
the  rising  glory  to  appear.  Ever  when  I  recall  the  custom, 
that  one  lark  is  wildly  praising  over  my  head,  for  he  sees  the 
sun  for  which  I  am  waiting.  He  has  his  nest  in  the  hollow 
beside  me.  I  would  sooner  have  turned  my  back  on  the  sun 
than  disturbed  the  home  of  his  high-priest,  the  lark.  And 
now  the  edge  of  my  horizon  begins  to  burn  ;  the  green  blades 
glow  in  their  tops  ;  they  are  melted  through  with  light ;  the 
flashes  invade  my  eyes  ;  they  gather ;  they  grow,  until  I  hi4e 
my  face  in  my  hands.  The  sun  is  up.  But  on  my  hands  and 
my  knees  I  rush  after  the  retreating  shadow,  and,  like  a  child 
at  play  with  its  nurse,  hide  in  its  curtain.  Up  and  up  comes 
the  peering  sun  ;  he  will  find  me  ;  I  cannot  hide  from  him ; 
there  is  in  the  wide  field  no  shelter  from  his  gaze.  No  matter 
then.  Let  him  shine  into  the  deepest  corners  of  my  heart, 
and  shake  the  cowardice  and  the  meanness  out  of  it. 

I  thus  made  friends  with  Nature.  I  had  no  great  variety 
3 


34  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

even  in  her,  but  the  better  did  I  understand  what  I  had.  The 
next  summer,  I  began  to  hunt  for  glow-worms,  and  carry  them 
carefully  to  my  hollow,  that  in  the  warm,  soft,  moonless 
nights  they  might  illumine  it  with  a  strange  light.  When  I 
had  been  very  successful,  I  would  call  my  uncle  and  aunt  to 
see.  My  aunt  tried  me  by  always  having  something  to  do 
first.  My  uncle,  on  the  other  hand,  would  lay  down  his  book 
at  once,  and  follow  me  submissively.  He  could  not  generate 
amusement  for  me,  but  he  sympathized  with  what  I  could  find 
for  myself. 

"  Come  and  see  my  cows,"  I  would  say  to  him. 

I  well  remember  the  first  time  I  took  him  to  see  them. 
When  we  reached  the  hollow,  he  stood  for  a  moment  silent. 
Then  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, 

"  Very  pretty,  Willie  !     But  why  do  you  call  them  cows  ?  " 

"  You  told  me  last  night,"  I  answered,  "that  the  road  the 
angels  go  acrosf^  the  sky  is  called  the  milky  way — didn't  you, 
uncle?" 

"  I  never  told  you  the  angels  went  that  way,  my  boy." 

"  Oh  !  didn't  you  ?     I  thought  you  did." 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"  Oh !  I  remember  now :  I  thought  if  it  was  a  way,  and 
nobody  but  the  angels  could  go  in  it,  that  must  be  the  way 
the  angels  did  go." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see  !  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  glow-worms  ?" 

"  Don't  you  see,  uncle  ?  If  it  be  the  milky  way,  the  stars 
must  be  the  cows.  Look  at  my  cows,  uncle.  Their  milk  is 
very  pretty  milk,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Very  pretty,  indeed,  my  dear — rather  green." 

"  Then  I  suppose  if  you  could  put  it  in  auntie's  pan,  you 
might  make  another  moon  of  it  ?  " 

"  That's  being  silly  now,"  said  my  uncle ;  and  I  ceased, 
abashed. 

"  Look,  look,  uncle ! "  I  exclaimed,  a  moment  after ; 
"  they  don't  like  being  talked  about,  my  cows." 

For  as  if  a  cold  gust  of  wind  had  passed  over  them,  they 
all  dwindled  and  paled.     I  thought  they  were  going  out 


I   HAVE    LESSONS.  35 

• 

"  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear ! "  I  cried,  and  began  dancing  about 
with  dismay.  The  next  instant  the  glow  returned,  and  the 
hollow  was  radiant. 

"  Oh  the  dear  light !  "  I  cried  again.  "  Look  at  it,  uncle ! 
Isn't  it  lovely  ?  " 

He  took  me  by  the  hand.  His  actions  were  always  so 
much  more  tender  than  his  words ! 

"  Do  you  know  who  is  the  light  of  the  world,  Willie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  well  enough.  I  saw  him  get  out  of  bed  this 
morning." 

My  uncle  led  me  home  without  a  word  more.  But  next 
night  he  began  to  teach  me  about  the  light  of  the  world,  and 
about  walking  in  the  light.  I  do  not  care  to  repeat  much  of 
what  he  taught  me  in  this  kind,  for,  like  my  glow-worms,  it 
does  not  like  to  be  talked  about.  Somehow  it  loses  color  and 
shine  when  one  talks. 

I  have  now  shown  sufficiently  how  my  uncle  would  seize 
opportunities  for  beginning  things.  He  thought  more  of  the 
beginning  than  of  any  other  part  of  a  process. 

"All's  well  that  begins  well,"  he  would  say.  I  did  not 
know  what  his  smile  meant  as  he  said  so. 

I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  managed  to  get  through  the  days 
without  being  weary.  No  one  ever  thought  of  giving  me  toys. 
I  had  a  turn  for  using  my  hands ;  but  I  was  too  young  to  be 
trusted  with  a  knife.  I  had  never  seen  a  kite,  except  far  away 
in  the  sky:  I  took  it  for  a  bird.  There  were  no  rushes  to 
make  water-wheels  of,  and  no  brooks  to  set  them  turning  in. 
I  had  neither  top  nor  marbles.  I  had  no  dog  to  play  w^ith. 
And  yet  I  do  not  remember  once  feeling  weary.  I  knew  all 
the  creatures  that  went  creeping  about  in  the  grass,  and  al- 
though I  did  not  know  the  proper  name  for  one  of  them,  I  had 
names  of  my  own  for  them  all,  and  was  so  familiar  with  their 
looks  and  their  habits,  that  I  am  confident  I  could  in  some  de- 
gree interpret  some  of  the  people  I  met  afterwards  by  their  re- 
semblances to  these  insects.  I  have  a  man  in  my  mind  now 
who  has  exactly  the  head  and  face,  if  face  it  can  be  called,  of 
an  ant.     It  is  not  a  head,  but  a  helmet.     I  knew  all  the  but- 


36  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

terflies — they  were  mostly  small  ones,  but  of  lovely  varieties. 
A  stray  dragon-fly  would  now  and  then  delight  me:  and  there 
were  hunting-spiders  and  wood-lice,  and  queerer  creatures  of 
which  I  do  not  yet  know  the  names.  Then  there  were  grass- 
hoppers, which  for  some  time  I  took  to  be  made  of  green  leaves, 
and  I  thought  they  grew  like  fruit  on  the  trees  till  they  were 
ripe,  when  they  jumped  down,  and  jumped  for  ever  after. 
Another  child  might  have  caught  and  caged  them ;  for  me,  I 
followed  them  about,  and  watched  their  ways. 

In  the  winter  things  had  not  hitherto  gone  quite  so  well 
with  me.  Then  I  had  been  a  good  deal  dependent  upon  Nan- 
nie and  her  stories,  which  were  neither  very  varied  nor  very 
well  told.  But  now  that  I  had  begun  to  read,  things  went 
better.  To  be  sure,  there  were  not  in  my  uncle's  library  many 
books  such  as  children  have  nowadays,  but  there  were  old  his- 
tories, and  some  voyages  and  travels,  and  in  them  I  revelled. 
I  am  perplexed  sometimes  when  I  look  into  one  of  these  books 
— for  I  have  them  all  about  me  now — to  find  how  dry  they 
are.  (The  shine  seems  to  have  gone  out  of  them.  Or  is  it  thatA 
the  shme  has  gone  out  of  the  eyes  that  used  to  read  them  ?J  Ify 
so,  it  will  come  again  some  day.  I  do  not  find  that  the  shine 
has  gone  out  of  a  beetle's  back ;  and  I  can  read  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress  still. 


I   COBBLE.  37 


CHAPTER  VI. 


I   COBBLE. 


All  this  has  led  me,  after  a  roundabout  fashion,  to  what 
became  for  some  time  the  chief  delight  of  my  winters — an  em- 
ployment, moreover,  which  I  have  taken  up  afresh  at  odd 
times  during  my  life.  It  came  about  thus.  My  uncle  had 
made  me  a  present  of  an  old  book  with  pictures  in  it.  It  was 
called  Tlis  Preceptor — one  of  Dodsley's  publications.  There 
were  wonderful  folding  plates  of  all  sorts  in  it.  Those  which 
represented  animals  were  of  course  my  favorites.  But  these 
especially  were  in  a  very  dilapidated  condition,  for  there  had 
been  children  before  me  somewhere ;  and  I  proceeded,  at  my 
uncle's  suggestion,  to  try  to  mend  them  by  pasting  them  on  an- 
other piece  of  paper.  I  made  bad  work  of  it  at  first,"  and  was 
so  dissatisfied  with  the  results,  that  I  set  myself  in  earnest  to 
find  i^ut  by  what  laws  of  jmste  and  paper  success  might  be  se- 
cured Before  the  winter  was  over,  ray  uncle  found  me  grown 
so  skillful  m  this  manipulation  of  broken  leaves — for  as  yet  I 
had  not  ventured  further  in  any  of  the  branches  of  repair — 
that  he  gave  me  plenty  of  little  jobs  of  the  sort,  for  amongst 
his  books  there  were  many  old  ones.  This  was  a  source  of 
great  pleasure  Before  the  following  winter  was  over,  I  came 
to  try  my  hand  at  repairing  bindings,  and  my  uncle  was  again 
so  much  pleased  with  my  success,  that  one  day  he  brought  me 
from  the  county  town  some  sheets  of  parchment  with  which  to 
attempt  the  fortification  of  certain  vellum-bound  volumes 
which  were  considerably  the  worse  for  age  and  use.  I  well 
remember  how  troublesome  the  parchment  was  for  a  long 
time ;  but  at  last  I  conquered  it,  and  succeeded  very  fairly  in 
my  endeavors  to  restore  to  tidiness  the  garments  of  ancient 
thought. 

But  there  was  another  consequence  of  this  pui-suit  which 


38  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

may  be  considered  of  weight  in  my  history.  This  was  the  dis- 
covery of  a  copy  of  the  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia — much 
in  want  of  skillful  patching,  from  the  title-page,  with  its  boar 
smelling  at  the  rose-bush,  to  the  graduated  lines  and  the  Finis, 
This  book  I  read  through  from  boar  to  finis — no  small  under- 
taking, and  partly,  no  doubt,  under  its  influences,  I  became 
about  this  time  conscious  of  a  desire  after  honor,  as  yet  a  no- 
tion of  the  vaguest.  I  hardly  know  how  I  escaped  the  taking 
for  granted  that  there  were  yet  knights  riding  about  on  war- 
horses,  with  couched  lances  and  fierce  spurs,  everywhere,  as  in 
the  days  of  old.  They  might  have  been  roaming  the  world  in 
all  directions,  without  my  seeing  one  of  them.  But  somehow 
I  did  not  fall  into  the  mistake.  Only  with  the  thought  of  my 
future  career,  when  I  should  be  a  man  and  go  out  into  the 
world,  came  always  the  thought  of  the  sword  that  hung  on 
the  wall.  A  longing  to  handle  it  began  to  possess  me,  and 
my  old  dream  returned.  I  dared  not,  however,  say  a  word  to 
my  uncle  on  the  subject.  I  felt  certain  that  he  would  slight 
the  desire,  and  perhaps  tell  me  I  should  hurt  myself  with  the 
weapon ;  and  one  whose  heart  glowed  at  the  story  of  the  bat- 
tle between  him  on  the  white  horse  with  carnation  mane  and 
tail,  in  his  armor  of  blue  radiated  with  gold,  and  him  on  the 
black  spotted  brow^n,  in  his  dusky  armor  of  despair,  could  not 
expose  himself  to  such  an  indignity. 


THE  SWOBD  ON  THE  WALL.  39 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   SWORD   ON   THE  WALL. 

Where  possession  was  impossible,  knowledge  might  yet  be 
reached ;  could  I  not  learn  the  story  of  the  ancient  weapon  ? 
How  came  that  which  had  more  fitly  hung  in  the  hall  of  a 
great  castle,  here  upon  the  wall  of  a  kitchen  ?  My  uncle, 
however,  I  felt,  was  not  the  source  whence  I  might  hope  for 
help.  No  better  was  my  aunt.  Indeed  I  had  the  conviction 
that  she  neither  knew  nor  cared  anything  about  the  useless 
thing.  It  was  her  tea-table  that  must  be  kept  bright  for 
honor's  sake.     But  there  was  grannie ! 

My  relations  with  her  had  continued  much  the  same.  The 
old  fear  of  her  lingered,  and  as  yet  I  had  had  no  inclination 
to  visit  her  room  by  myself.  I  saw  that  my  uncle  and  aunt 
always  behaved  to  her  with  the  greatest  kindness  and  much 
deference,  but  could  not  help  observing  also  that  she  cherished 
some  secret  offence,  receiving  their  ministrations  with  a  cer- 
tain condescension  which  clearly  enough  manifested  its  origin 
as  hidden  cause  of  complaint  and  not  pride.  I  wondered  that 
my  uncle  and  aunt  took  no  notice  of  it,  always  addressing  her 
as  if  they  were  on  the  best  possible  terms ;  and  I  knew  that 
my  uncle  never  Avent  to  his  work  without  visiting  her,  and 
never  went  to  bed  without  reading  a  prayer  by  her  bedside 
first.     I  think  Nannie  told  me  this. 

She  could  still  read  a  little,  for  her  sight  had  been  short, 
and  had  held  out  better  even  than  usual  with  such.  But  she 
cared  nothing  for  the  news  of  the  hour.  My  uncle  had  a 
weekly  newspaper,  though  not  by  any  means  regularly,  from  a 
friend  in  London,  but  I  never  saw  it  in  my  grandmother's 
hands.  Her  reading  was  mostly  in  the  Spectator^  or  in  one  of 
De  Foe's  works.     I  have  seen  her  reading  Pope. 


40  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

The  sword  was  in  ray  bones,  and  as  I  judged  that  only  from 
grannie  coukl  I  get  any  information  respecting  it,  I  found 
myself  beginning  to  inquire  why  I  was  afraid  to  go  to  her.  I 
was  unable  to  account  for  it,  still  less  to  justify  it.  As  I  re- 
flected, the  kindness  of  her  words  and  expression  dawned 
upon  me,  and  I  even  got  so  far  as  to  believe  that  I  had  been 
guilty  of  neglect  in  not  visiting  her  oftener  and  doing  some- 
thing for  her.  True,  I  recalled  likewise  that  ray  uncle  had 
desired  me  not  to  visit  her  except  with  him  or  my  aunt,  but 
that  was  ages  ago,  when  I  was  a  very  little  boy,  and  might 
have  been  troublesome.  I  could  even  read  to  her  now  if  she 
wished  it.  In  short,  I  felt  myself  perfectly  capable  of  enter- 
ing into  social  relations  with  her  generally.  But  if  there  was 
any  flow  of  affection  towards  her,  it  was  the  sword  that  had 
broken  the  seal  of  its  fountain. 

One  morning  at  breakfast  I  bad  been  sitting  gazing  at  the 
sword  on  the  wall  opposite  me.  My  aunt  had  observed  the 
steadiness  of  my  look. 

"  What  are  you  staring  at,  Willie  ?"  she  said.  "  Your  eyes 
are  fixed  in  your  head.     Are  you  choking  ?" 

The  words  offended  rae.  I  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the 
room.  As  I  went  round  the  table  I  saw  that  my  uncle  and 
aunt  were  staring  at  each  other  very  much  as  I  had  been  star- 
ing at  the  sword.  I  soon  felt  ashamed  of  myself,  and  re- 
turned, hoping  that  my  behaviour  might  be  attributed  to  some 
passing  indisposition.  Mechanically  I  raised  my  eyes  to  the 
wall.  Could  I  believe  them?  The  sword  was  gone — abso- 
lutely gone !  My  heart  seemed  to  swell  up  into  my  throat ;  I 
felt  my  cheeks  burning.  The  passion  grew  within  me,  and 
might  have  broken  out  in  some  form  or  other,  had  I  not  felt 
that  would  at  once  betray  my  secret.  I  sat  still  with  a  fierce 
effort,  consoling  and  strengthening  myself  with  the  resolution 
that  I  would  hesitate  no  longer,  but  take  the  first  chance  of  a 
private  interview  with  grannie.  I  tried  hard  to  look  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  and  when  breakfast  was  over,  went  to 
my  own  room.  It  was  there  I  carried  on  my  pasting  opera- 
tions.    There  also  at  this  time  I  drank  deep  in  the  Pilgrim\ 


THE  SWORD  ON  THE  WALL.  41 

Progress:  there  were  swords,  and  armor,  and  giants,  and 
demons  there ;  but  I  had  no  inclination  for  either  employment 
now. 

My  uncle  left  for  the  farm  as  usual,  and  to  my  delight  I 
soon  discovered  that  my  aunt  had  gone  with  him.  The  ways 
of  the  house  were  as  regular  as  those  of  a  bee-hive.  Sitting  in 
my  own  room  I  knew  precisely  where  any  one  must  be  at  any 
given  .  moment ;  for  although  the  only  clock  we  had  was 
oftener  standing  than  going,  a  perfect  instinct  of  time  was 
common  to  the  household,  Nannie  included.  At  that  moment 
she  was  sweeping  up  the  hearth  and  putting  on  the  kettle. 
In  half  an  hour  she  would  have  tidied  up  the  kitchen,  and 
would  have  gone  to  prepare  the  vegetables  for  cooking  :  I 
must  wait.  But  the  sudden  fear  struck  me  that  my  aunt 
might  have  taken  the  sword  with  her — might  be  going  to 
make  away  with  it  altogether.  I  started  up  and  rushed 
about  the  room  in  an  agony.  What  could  I  do  ?  At  length 
I  heard  Nannie's  pattens  clatter  out  of  the  kitchen  to  a  small 
out-house  where  she  pared  the  potatoes.  I  instantly  de- 
scended, crossed  the  kitchen,  and  went  up  the  winding  stone 
stair.     I  opened  grannie's  door,  and  went  in. 

She  was  seated  in  her  usual  place.  Never  till  now  had  I 
felt  how  old  she  was.  She  looked  up  when  I  entered,  for 
although  she  had  grovm  very  deaf,  she  could  feel  the  floor 
shake.  I  saw  by  her  eyes  which  looked  higher  than  my  head, 
that  she  had  expected  a  taller  figure  to  follow  me.  When  I 
turned  from  shutting  the  door,  I  saw  her  arms  extended  with 
an  eager  look,  and  could  see  her  hands  trembliug  ere  she 
folded  them  about  me,  and  pressed  my  head  to  her  bosom. 

"  O  Lord !"  she  said,  "  I  thank  thee.  I  will  try  to  be  good 
now.  O  Lord,  I  have  waited,  and  thou  hast  heard  me.  I 
will  believe  in  thee  again !" 

For  that  moment  I  loved  my  grannie,  and  felt  that  I  owed 
her  something  as  well  as  my  uncle,  I  had  never  had  this  feel- 
ing about  my  aunt. 

"  Grannie !"  I  said,  trembling  from  a  conflict  of  emotions ; 
but  before  I  could  utter  my  complaint,  I  had  burst  out  crying. 


41:  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

"  What  have  they  been  doing  to  you,  child  ?"  she  asked, 
almost  liercely,  and  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair.  Her  voice, 
although  feeble  and  quavering,  was  determined  in  tone.  She 
pushed  me  back  from  her  and  sought  the  face  I  was  ashamed 
to  show.  ''  What  have  they  done  to  you,  my  boy  ?"  she  re- 
peated, ere  I  could  conquer  my  sobs  sufficiently  to  speak. 

"  They  have  taken  away  the  sword  that " 

"  What  sword  ?"  she  asked,  quickly.  "  Not  the  sword  that 
your  great-grandfather  wore  when  he  followed  Sir  Marmaduke?" 

"  I  don't  know,  grannie." 

"  Don't    know,  boy  ?      The   only   thing   your   father  took 

when   he .      Kot    the   sword   with   the    broken    sheath? 

Never !     They  daren't  do  it !     I  will  go  down  myself.     I  must 
see  about  it  at  once." 

"  O  grannie,  don't !"  I  cried  in  terror,  as  she  rose  from  her 
chair.  "They'll  not  let  me  ever  come  near  you  again,  if 
you  do." 

She  sat  down  again.  After  seeming  to  ponder  for  a  while 
in  silence,  she  said : — 

"  Well,  Willie,  my  dear,  you're  more  to  me  than  the  old 
Bword.  But  I  wouldn't  have  had  it  .handled  w^ith  disrespect 
for  all  that  the  place  is  worth.     However,  I  don't  suppose  they 

can .     What  made  them  do  it,  child  ?     They've  not  taken 

it  do^vn  from  the  wall." 

"Yes,  grannie.  I  think  it  was  because  I  was  staring  at  it 
too  much,  grannie.  Perhaps  they  were  afraid  I  would  take  it 
down  and  hurt  myself  with  it.  But  I  w^as  only  going  to  ask 
you  about  it,  grannie." 

All  my  notion  was  some  story,  I  did  not  think  whether  true 
or  false,  like  one  of  Nannie's  stories. 

"  That  I  will,  my  child — all  about  it — all  about  it.  Let  me 
see. 

Her  eyes  went  wandering  a  little  and  she  looked  perplexed. 

"  And  they  took  it  from  you,  did  they,  then  ?  Poor  child  ! 
Poor  child  !" 

"  They  didn't  take  it  from  me,  grannie.  I  never  had  it  in 
my  hands." 


THE  SWORD  ON  THE  WALL.  43 

"  Wouldn't  give  it  to  you  then  ?     Oh  dear !     Oh  dear  !" 

I  began  to  feel  uncomfortable — grannie  looked  so  strange 
and  lost.  The  old  feeling  that  she  ought  to  be  buried  because 
she  was  dead  returned  upon  me  ;  but  I  overcame  it  so  far  as 
to  be  able  to  say : 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it,  then,  grannie?  I  want  so 
much  to  hear  about  the  battle." 

"What  battle,  child?  Oh  yes!  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
some  day,  but  I've  forgot  now,  I've  forgot  it  all  now." 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  sat  thus  for  some 
time,  while  I  grew  very  frightened.  I  would  gladly  have  left 
the  room  and  crept  down  stairs,  but  I  stood  fascinated,  gazing 
at  the  withered  face,  half-hidden  by  the  withered  hand.  I 
longed  to  be  anywhere  else,  but  my  will  had  deserted  me,  and 
there  I  must  remain.  At  length  grannie  took  her  hand  from 
her  eyes,  and,  seeing  me,  started. 

"Ah,  my  dear!"  she  said,  "I  had  forgotten  you.  You 
wanted  me  to  do  something  for  you:  what  Avas  it?" 

"  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me  about  the  sword,  grannie." 

"  Oh  yes !  the  sword !"  she  returned,  putting  her  hand  again 
to  her  forehead.  "They  took  it  away  from  you,  did  they? 
Well,  never  mind.  I  will  give  you  something  else — though  I 
don't  say  it's  as  good  as  the  sword." 

She  rose,  and  taking  an  ivory-headed  stick  which  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  chimney-piece,  walked  with  tottering 
steps  towards  the  bureau.  There  she  took  from  her  pocket  a 
small  bunch  of  keys,  and  having,  with  some  difficulty,  from  the 
trembling  of  her  hands,  chosen  one,  and  unlocked  the  sloping 
cover,  she  opened  a  little  drawer  inside,  and  took  out  a  gold 
watch,  with  a  bunch  of  seals  hanging  from  it.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  thrill  that  went  through  my  frame.  Did  she  mean 
to  let  me  hold  it  in  my  own  hand  ?  Might  I  have  it  as  often 
as  I  came  to  see  her  ?  Imagine  my  ecstasy  when  she  put  it 
carefully  in  the  two  hands  I  held  up  to  receive  it,  and  said : 

"  There,  my  dear !  You  must  take  good  care  of  it,  and  never 
give  it  away  for  love  or  money.  Don't  you  open  it — there's  a 
good  boy,  till  your'e  a  man,  like  your  father.     He  luas  a  man ! 


44  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

He  gave  it  to  me  the  day  we  were  married,  for  he  had  nothing 
else,  he  said,  to  offer  me.  But  I  would  not  take  it,  my  dear. 
I  liked  better  to  sec  him  with  it  than  have  it  myself.  And 
when  he  left  me,  I  kept  it  for  you.  But  you  must  take  care 
of  it,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  grannie!"  I  cried,  in  an  agony  of  pleasure. 
"  I  will  take  care  of  it — indeed  I  will.  Is  it  a  real  watch, 
grannie — as  real  as  uncle's  ?" 

"It's  worth  ten  of  your  uncle's,  my  dear.  Don't  you  show 
it  him,  though.  He  might  take  that  away,  too.  Your  uncle's 
a  very  good  man,  my  dear ;  but  you  mustn't  mind  every  thing 
he  says  to  you.  He  forgets  things.  I  never  forget  any  thing. 
I  have  plenty  of  time  to  think  about  things.     I  never  forget." 

"  Will  it  go,  grannie  ?"  I  asked,  for  my  uncle  was  a  much 
less  interesting  subject  than  the  watch. 

"  It  won't  go  without  being  wound  up ;  but  you  might  break 
it.  Besides,  it  may  want  cleaning.  It's  several  years  since  it 
was  cleaned  last.     Where  will  you  put  it  now  ?" 

"  Oh !  I  know  where  to  hide  it  safe  enough,  grannie,"  I  ex- 
claimed. "I'll  take  care  of  it.  You  needn't  be  afraid, 
grannie." 

The  old  lady  turned,  and  with  difficulty  tottered  to  her  seat. 
I  remained  where  I  was,  fixed  in  contemj^lation  of  my  treasure. 
She  called  me.     I  went  and  stood  by  her  knee. 

"  My  child,  there  is  something  I  want  very  much  to  tell  you, 
but  you  know  old  people  forget  things " 

"  But  you  said  just  now  that  you  never  forgot  any  thing, 
grannie." 

"  Ko  more  I  do,  my  dear ;  only  I  can't  always  lay  my  hands 
upon  a  thing  when  I  want  it." 

"  It  was  about  the  sword,  grannie,"  I  said,  thinking  to  refresh 
her  memory. 

"  No,  my  dear ;  I  don't  think  it  was  about  the  sword  ex- 
actly— though  that  had  something  to  do  with  it.  I  shall  re- 
member it  all  by  and  by.  It  will  come  again.  And  so  must 
you,  my  dear.  Don't  leave  your  old  mother  so  long  alone. 
It's  weary,  weary  work,  waiting." 


THE  SWORD  ON  THE  WALL.  45 

"  Indeed  I  won't,  grannie/'  I  said.  "  I  will  come  the  very 
first  time  I  can.  Only  I  mustn't  let  auntie  see  me,  you 
know.  You  don't  want  to  be  buried  now,  do  you,  grannie?"  I 
added ;  for  I  had  begun  to  love  her,  and  the  love  had  cast  out 
the  fear,  and  I  did  not  want  her  to  wish  to  be  buried. 

"  I  am  very,  very  old ;  much  too  old  to  live,  my  dear.  But 
I  must  do  you  justice  before  I  can  go  to  my  grave.  Koiv  I 
know  what  I  wanted  to  say.  It's  gone  again.  Oh  dear! 
Oh  dear !  If  I  had  you  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when 
every  thing  comes  back  as  if  it  had  been  only  yesterday,  I  could 
tell  you  all  about  it  from  beginning  to  end,  with  all  the  ins  and 
outs  of  it.     But  I  can't  now — I  can't  now." 

She  moaned  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro. 

"  Never  mind,  grannie,"  I  said  cheerfully,  for  I  was  happy 
enough  for  all  eternity  with  my  gold  watch ;  "  I  will  come  and 
see  you  again  as  soon  as  ever  I  can."  And  I  kissed  her  on  the 
white  cheek. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  think  you  had  better  go  now. 
They  may  miss  you,  and  then  I  should  never  see  you  again — 
to  talk  to,  I  mean." 

"  Why  won't  they  let  me  come  and  see  you,  grannie  ?" 

"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  if  I  could  only  see  a  little 
better,"  she  answered,  once  more  putting  her  hand  to  her  fore- 
head. "  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  next  time.  Go 
now,  my  dear." 

I  left  the  room,  nothing  loth,  for  I  longed  to  be  alone  with 
my  treasure.  I  could  not  get  enough  of  it  in  grannie's  pre- 
sence even.  Noiseless  as  a  cat  I  crept  down  the  stair.  When  I 
reached  the  door  at  the  foot,  I  stood  and  listened.  The  kitchen 
was  quite  silent.  I  stepped  out.  There  was  no  one  there. 
I  scudded  across  and  up  the  other  stair  to  my  ovm  room,  care- 
fully shutting  the  door  behind  me.  Then  I  sat  down  on  the 
floor,  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  so  that  it  was  between  me 
and  the  door,  and  I  could  run  into  the  closet  with  my  treasure 
before  any  one  entering  should  see  me. 

The  watch  was  a  very  thick  round  one.  The  back  of  it  was 
crowded   with  raised   figufcs   in    the    kind   of   work   caUed 


46  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

reponssee.  I  pored  over  these  for  a  long  time,  and  then  turned 
to  the  face.  It  wius  set  all  round  with  shining  stones — dia- 
monds, though  1  knew  nothing  of  diamonds  then.  The  enamel 
was  cracked,  and  I  followed  every  crack,  as  well  as  every  figure 
of  the  hours.  Then  I  began  to  wonder  what  I  could  do  with 
it  next.  I  was  not  satisfied.  Possession,  I  found,  was  not 
bliss:  it  had  not  rendered  me  content.  But  it  was  as  yet  im- 
perfect :  I  had  not  seen  the  inside.  Grannie  had  told  me  not 
to  open  it :  I  began  to  think  it  hard  that  I  should  be  denied 
thorough  possession  of  what  had  been  given  to  me.  I  believed 
I  should  be  quite  satisfied,  if  I  once  saw  what  made  it  go.  I 
turned  it  over  and  over,  thinking  I  might  at  least  find  how  it 
was  opened.  I  have  little  doubt,  if  I  had  discovered  the  secret 
of  it,  my  virtue  would  have  failed  me.  All  I  did  find,  how- 
ever, was  the  head  of  a  curious  animal  engraved  on  the  handle. 
This  w^as  something.  .  I  examined  it  as  carefully  as  the  rest, 
and  then  finding  I  had  for  the  time  exhausted  the  pleasures  of 
the  watch,  I  turned  to  the  seals.  On  one  of  them  was  engraved 
what  looked  like  letters,  but  I  could  not  read  them.  I  did  not 
know  that  they  were  turned  the  wrong  way.  One  of  them  was 
like  a  W.  On  the  other  seal — there  were  but  two,  and  a  cu- 
riously-contrived key — I  found  the  same  head  as  was  engraved 
on  the  handle, — turned  the  other  way,  of  course.  "Wearied  at 
length,  I  took  the  precious  thing  into  the  dark  closet,  and  laid 
it  in  a  little  box  which  formed  one  of  my  few  possessions.  I 
then  wandered  out  into  the  field,  and  went  straying  about  un- 
til dinner-time,  during  which  I  believe  I  never  once  lifted  my 
eyes  to  the  place  where  the  sword  had  hung,  lest  even  that 
action  should  betray  the  watch. 

From  that  day,  my  head,  and  as  much  of  my  heart  as  might 
be,  were  filled  with  the  watch.  And,  alas !  I  soon  found  that 
my  book-mending  had  grown  distasteful  to  me,  and  for  the 
satisfaction  of  employment,  possession  was  a  poor  substitute. 
As  often  as  I  made  the  attempt  to  resume  it,  I  got  weary,  and 
wandered  almost  involuntarily  to  the  closet  to  feel  for  my  trea- 
sure in  the  dark,  handle  it  once  more,  and  bring  it  out  into  the 
light.     Already  I  began  to  dree  the  doom  of  riches,  in  the  vain 


THE  SWORD  ON  THE  WALL.  47 

attempt  to  live  by  that  which  was  not  bread.  Nor  was  this 
all.  A  certain  weight  began  to  gather  over  my  spirit — a  sense 
almost  of  wrong.  For  although  the  watch  had  been  given  me 
by  my  grandmother,  and  I  never  doubted  either  her  right  to 
dispose  of  it,  or  my  right  to  possess  it,  .1  could  not  look  my 
uncle  in  the  face,  partly  from  a  vague  fear  lest  he  should  read 
my  secret  in  my  eyes,  partly  from  a  sense  of  something  out  of 
joint  between  him  and  me.  I  began  to  fancy,  and  I  believe  I 
was  right,  that  he  looked  at  me  sometimes  with  a  wistfulness 
I  had  never  seen  in  his  face  before.  This  made  me  so  uncom- 
fortable, that  I  began  to  avoid  his  presence  as  much  as  possi- 
ble. And  although  I  tried  to  -please  him  with  my  lessons,  I 
could  not  learn  them  as  hitherto. 

One  day  he  asked  me  to  bring  him  the  book  I  had  been 
repairing. 

"  It's  not  finished  yet,  uncle,"  I  said. 

"  Will  you  bring  it  me  just  as  it  is  ?  I  want  to  look  for 
something  in  it." 

I  went  and  brought  it  with  shame.  He  took  it,  and  having 
found  the  passage  he  wanted,  turned  the  volume  once  over  in 
his  hands,  and  gave  it  me  back  without  a  word. 

Next  day  I  restored  it  to  him  finished  and  tidy.  He 
thanked  me,  looked  it  over  again,  and  put  it  in  its  place. 
But  I  fairly  encountered  an  inquiring  and  somewhat  anxious 
gaze.  I  believe  he  had  a  talk  with  my  aunt  about  me  that 
night. 

The  next  morning,  I  was  seated  by  the  bedside,  with  my 
secret  in  my  hand,  when  I  thought  I  heard  the  sound  of  the 
door-handle,  and  glided  at  once  into  the  closet.  When  I 
came  out  in  a  flutter  of  anxiety,  there  was  no  one  there.  But 
I  had  been  too  much  startled  to  return  to  what  I  had  grown 
to  feel  almost  a  guilty  pleasure. 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast,  I  crept  into  the  closet, 
put  my  hand  unerringly  into  the  one  corner  of  the  box,  found 
no  watch,  and  after  an  unavailing  search,  sat  down  in  the 
dark  on  a  bundle  of  rags,  with  the  sensations  of  a  ruined 
man.     My  world  was  withered  up  and  gone.     How  the  day 


48  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

passed,  I  cannot  tell.  How  I  got  through  my  meals,  I  can- 
not even  imagine.  When  I  look  back  and  attempt  to  recall 
the  time,  I  see  but  a  cloudy  waste  of  misery  crossed  by  the 
lightning-streaks  of  a  sense  of  injury.  All  that  was  left  me 
now  was  a  cat-like  watching  for  the  chance  of  going  to  my 
grandmother.  Into  her  ear  I  would  pour  the  tale  of  my 
wrong.  She  who  had  been  as  a  haunting  discomfort  to  me, 
had  grown  to  be  my  one  consolation. 

My  lessons  went  on  as  usual.  A  certain  pride  enabled  me 
to  learn  them  tolerably  for  a  day  or  two ;  but  when  that  faded, 
my  whole  being  began  to  flag.  For  some  time  my  existence 
was  a  kind  of  life  in  death.  At  length  one  evening  my  uncle 
said  to  me,  as  we  finished  my  lessons  far  from  satisfactorily — 

"  Willie,  your  aunt  and  I  think  it  better  you  should  go  to 
school.  We  shall  be  very  sorry  to  part  with  you,  but  it  will 
be  better.  You  will  then  have  companions  of  your  own  age. 
You  have  not  enough  to  amuse  you  at  home." 

He  did  not  allude  by  a  single  word  to  the  affair  of  the 
watch.  Could  my  aunt  have  taken  it,  and  never  told  him  ?  It 
was  not  likely. 

I  was  delighted  at  the  idea  of  any  change,  for  my  life  had 
grown  irksome  to  me. 

"  O,  thank  you,  uncle !"  I  cried,  with  genuine  expression. 

I  think  he  looked  a  little  sad  ;  but  he  uttered  no  reproach. 

My  aunt  and  he  had  already  arranged  everything.  The 
next  day  but  one,  I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  a  carriage  drive  up 
to  the  door  of  the  house.  I  was  waiting  for  it  impatiently. 
^My  new  clothes  had  all  been  packed  in  a  little  box.  I  had  J 
I  not  put  in  a  single  toy :  I  cared  for  nothing  I  had  now.  The 
Box  was  put  up  beside  the  driver.  My  aunt  came  to  the  door 
where  I  was  waiting  for  my  uncle. 

"  Mayn't  I  go  and  say  good-bye  to  grannie  ?"  I  asked. 

"  She's  not  very  well  to-day,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  think  you 
had  better  not.     You  will  be  back  at  Christmas,  you  know." 

I  was  not  so  much  grieved  as  I  ought  to  have  been.  The 
loss  of  my  watch  had  made  the  thought  of  grannie  painful 
asrain. 


THE  SWORD  ON  THE  WAI.L.  49 

"  Your  uncle  will  meet  you  at  the  road,"  continued  my 
aunt,  seeing  me  still  hesitate.     "  Good-bye." 

I  received  her  cold  embrace  without  emotion,  clambered 
into  the  chaise,  and  lookiug  out  as  the  driver  shut  the  door, 
wondered  what  my  aunt  was  holding  her  apron  to  her  eyes 
for,  as  she  turned  away  into  the  house.  My  uncle  met  us  and 
got  in,  and  away  the  chaise  rattled,  bearing  me  towards  an  ut- 
terly new  experience ;  for  hardly  could  the  strangest  region 
in  foreign  lands  be  more  unknown  to  the  wandering  mariner 
than  the  faces  and  ways  of  even  my  own  kind  were  to  me.  I 
never  played  for  one  half  hour  with  boy  or  girl.  I  knew 
nothing  of  their  playthings  or  their  games.  I  hardly  knew 
what  boys  were  like,  except,  outwardly,  from  the  dim  reflex 
of  myself  in  the  broken  mirror  in  my  bed-room,  whose  lustre 
was  more  of  the  ice  than  the  pool,  and,  inwardly,  from  the 
partly  exceptional  experiences  of  my  own  nature,  with  ev«n 
which  I  was  poorly  enough  acquainted. 


60  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

I  GO  TO  SCHOOL,  AND  GRANNIE  LEAVES  IT. 

It  is  an  evil  thing  to  break  up  a  family  before  the  natural 
period  of  its  dissolution.  In  the  course  of  things,  marriage, 
the  necessities  of  maintenance,  or  the  energies  of  labor 
guiding  "  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new,"  are  the  ordered 
causes  of  separation. 

Where  the  home  is  happy,  much  injury  is  done  the  children 
in  sending  them  to  school,  except  it  be  a  day-school,  whither 
they  go  in  the  morning  as  to  the  labors  of  the  world,  but 
whence  they  return  at  night  as  to  the  heaven  of  repose.  Con- 
flict through  the  day,  rest  at  night,  is  the  ideal.  A  day-school 
will  suffice  for  the  cultivation  of  the  necessary  public  or  na- 
tional spirit,  without  w^hich  the  love  of  the  family  may  de- 
generate into  a  merely  extended  selfishness,  but  which  is  itself 
founded  upon  those  family  affections.  At  the  same  time,  it 
must  be  confessed  that  boarding-schools  are,  in  many  cases,  an 
antidote  to  some  of  the  evil  conditions  which  exist  at  home. 

To  children  whose  home  is  a  happy  one,  the  exile  to  a 
school  must  be  bitter.  Mine,  however,  was  an  unusual  ex- 
perience. Leaving  aside  the  specially  troubled  state  in  which 
I  was  when  thus  carried  to  the  village  of  Aldwick,  I  had  few 
of  the  finer  elements  of  the  ideal  home  in  mine.  The  love  of 
my  childish  heart  had  never  been  drawn  out.  My  grand- 
mother had  begun  to  do  so,  but  her  influence  had  been 
speedily  arrested.  I  was,  as  they  say  of  cats,  more  attached 
to  the  place  than  the  people,  and  no  regrets  whatever  inter- 
fered to  quell  the  excitement  of  expectation,  wonder,  and 
curiosity  which  filled  me  on  the  journey.  The  motion  of  the 
vehicle,  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  the  travellers  we 
passed  on  the  road — all  seemed  to  partake  of  the  exuberant 


I   GO   TO  SCHOOL,   AND   GRANNIE   LEAVES   IT.  51 

life  which  swelled  and  overflowed  in  me.     Everything  was  as 
happy,  as  excited,  as  I  was. 

When'we  entered  the  village,  behold  it  was  a  region  of  glad 
tumult !  Were  there  not  three  dogs,  two  carts,  a  maid  carry- 
ing pails  of  water,  and  several  groups  of  frolicking  children 
in  the  street — not  to  mention  live  ducks,  and  a  glimpse  of 
grazing  geese  on  the  common  ?  There  were  also  two  mothers 
at  their  cottage-doors,  each  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  I  knew 
they  were  babies,  althougli  I  had  never  seen  a  baby  before. 
And  when  we  drove  through  the  big  wooden  gate  and  stopped 
at  the  door  of  what  had  been  the  manor-house  but  was  now 
Mr.  Elder's  school,  the  aspect  of  the  building,  half-covered 
with  ivy,  bore  to  me  a  most  friendly  look.  Still  more  friendly 
was  the  face  of  the  master's  wife,  who  received  us  in  a  low  dark 
parlor,  with  a  thick  soft  carpet,  and  rich  red  curtains.  It  was 
a  perfect  paradise  to  my  imagination.  Nor  did  the  appearance 
of  Mr.  Elder  at  ail  jar  with  the  vision  of  coming  happiness. 
His  round,  rosy,  spectacled  face  bore  in  it  no  premonitory  sug- 
gestion of  birch  or  rod,  and,  although  I  continued  at  his 
school  for  six  years,  I  never  saw  him  use  either.  If  a  boy  re-  ' 
quired  that  kind  of  treatment,  he  sent  him  home.  When  my 
uncle  left  me,  it  was  in  more  than  contentment  with  my  lot. 
Nor  did  anything  occur  to  alter  my  feeling  with  regard  to  it. 
I  soon  became  much  attached  to  Mrs.  Elder.  She  was  just 
the  woman  for  a  schoolmaster's  wife— as  full  of  maternity  as 
she  could  hold,  but  childless.  By  the  end  of  the  first  day  I 
thought  I  loved  her  far  more  than  my  aunt.  My  aunt  had 
done  her  duty  toAvards  me;  but  how  was  a  child  to  weigh 
that  ?  She  had  taken  no  trouble  to  make  me  love  her ;  she 
had  shown  me  none  of  the  signs  of  affection,  and  I  could  not 
appreciate  the  proofs  of  it  yet. 

I  soon  perceived  a  great  difference  between  my  uncle's  way 
of  teaching  and  that  of  Mr.  Elder.  My  uncle  always  ap- 
peared aware  of  something  behind  which  pressed  upon,  per- 
haps hurried  the  fact  he  was  making  me  understand.  He  \ 
made  me  feel,  perhaps  too  much,  that  it  was  a  mere  step  to- 
wards something   beyond.      Mr.    Elder,  on  the  other  hand, 


52  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

placed  every  point  in  such  a  strong  light  that  it  seemed  in 
itself  of  primary  consequence.  Both  were,  if  my  judgnicut 
after  so  many  years  be  correct,  admirable  teachers — my  uuele 
the  greater,  my  schoolmaster  the  more  immediately  efficient. 
As  I  was  a  manageable  boy,  to  the  very  verge  of  weakness, 
the  relations  between  us  were  entirely  pleasant. 

There  were  only  six  more  pupils,  all  of  them  sufficiently 
older  than  myself  to  be  ready  to  pet  and  indulge  me.  No  one 
who  saw  me  mounted  on  the  back  of  the  eldest,  a  lad  of  fifteen, 
and  driving  four  of  them  in  hand,  while  the  sixth  ran  along- 
side as  an  outrider — could  have  wondered  that  I  should 
find  school  better  than  home.  Before  the  first  day  was  over, 
the  sorrows  of  the  lost  watch  and  sword  had  vanished  utterly. 

^  For  what  was  possession  to  being  possessed?  What  was  a 
watch,  even  had  it  been  going,  to  the  movements  of  life  ?  To 
peep  from  the  wicket  in  the  great  gate  out  upon  the  village 
street,  with  the  well  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  a  girl  in  the  sun- 
shine winding  up  the  green  dripping  bucket  from  the  unknown 
depths  of  coolness,  was  more  than  a  thousand  watches.  But 
this  was  by  no  means  the  extent  of  my  new  survey  of  things. 
/One  of  the  causes  of  Mr.  Elder's  keeping  no  boy  who  required 

/  chastisement  was  his  own  love  of  freedom,  and  his  consequent 
desire  to  give  the  boys  as  much  liberty  out  of  school  hours  as 
possible.  He  believed  in  freedom.  "The  great  end  of  train- 
ing," he  said  to  me  many  years  after,  when  he  was  quite  an  old 
man,  "is  liberty;  and  the  sooner  you  can  get  a  boy  to  be  a  law 
to  himself,  the  sooner  you  make  a  man  of  him.  This  end  is 
impossible  without  freedom.  Let  those  who  have  no  choice,  or 
who  have  not  the  same  end  in  view,  do  the  best  they  can  with 
such  boys  as  they  find :  I  chose  only  such  as  could  bear  liberty. 
I  jever  set  up  as  a  reformer — only  as  an  educator.  For  that 
kind  of  work  others  were  more  fit  than  L  It  was  not  my  call- 
ing." Hence,  Mr.  Elder  no  more  allowed  labor  to  intrude 
upon  play,  than  play  to  intrude  upon  labor.  As  soon  as  lessons 
were  over,  we  were  free  to  go  where  we  would  and  do  what  we 
would,  under  certain  general  restrictions,  which  had  more  to  do 
with   social   proprieties   than   with   school   regulations.     "VV© 


I   GO   TO   SCHOOL,   AND   GRANNIE   LEAVRS   IT.  53 

roamed  the  country  from  tea-time  till  sundown;  sometimes  in 
the  summer  long  after  that.  Sometimes  also  on  moonlit  nights 
in  winter,  occasionally  even  when  the  stars  and  the  snow  gave 
the  only  light,  we  were  allowed  the  same  liberty  until  nearly 
bedtime.  Before  Christmas  came,  variety,  exercise,  and  social 
blessedness  had  wrought  upon  me  so  that  when  I  returned 
home,  my  uncle  and  aunt  were  astonished  at  the  change  in  me. 
I  had  grown  half  a  head,  and  the  paleness,  which  they  had 
considered  a  peculiar  accident  of  my  appearance,  had  given 
place  to  a  rosy  glow.  My  flitting  step  too  had  vanished :  I 
soon  became  aware  that  I  made  more  noise  than  my  aunt  liked, 
for  in  the  old  house  silence  was  in  its  very  temple.  My  uncle, 
however,  would  only  smile  and  say : 

"  Don't  bring  the  place  about  our  ears,  Willie,  my  boy.     I 
should  like  it  to  last  my  time." 

"I'm  afraid,"  my  aunt  would  interpose,  "Mr.  Elder  doesn't 
keep  very  good  order  in  his  school." 

Then  I  would  fire  up  in  defence  of  the  master,  and  my  uncle 
would  sit  and  listen,  looking  both  pleased  and  amused. 

I  had  not  been  many  moments  in  the  house  before  I  said, — 
"Mayn't  I  run  up  and  see  grannie,  uncle?" 
"I  will  go  and  see  how  she  is,"  my  aunt  said,  rising. 
She  went,  and  presently  returning,  said — • 
"  Grannie  seems  a  little  better.     You  may  come.   She  wants 
to  see  you." 

I  followed  her.  When  I  entered  the  room  and  looked  ex- 
pectantly towards  her  usual  place,  I  found  her  chair  empty.  I 
turned  to  the  bed.  There  she  was,  and  I  thought  she  looked 
much  the  same;  but  when  I  came  nearer  I  perceived  a  change 
in  her  countenance.  She  welcomed  me  feebly,  stroked  my  hair 
and  my  cheeks,  smiled  sweetly,  and  closed  her  eyes.  My  aunt 
led  me  away. 

When  bedtime  came  I  went  to  my  own  room,  and  was  soon 
fast  asleep.  What  roused  me,  I  do  not  know,  but  I  awoke  in 
the  midst  of  the  darkness,  and  the  next  moment  I  heard  a 
groan.  It  thrilled  me  with  horror.  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  lis- 
tened, but  heard  no  more.     As  I  sat  listening,  heedless  of  the 


W 


64  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

cold,  the  explanation  dawned  upon  me,  for  ray  powers  of  re- 
flection and  combination  had  been  developed  by  my  enlarged 
experience  of  life.     In  our  many  wanderings,  I  had  learned  to 
choose  between  roads  and  to  make  conjectures  from  the  lie  of 
the  country.     I  had  likewise  lived  in  a  far  larger  house  than 
my  home.     Hence  it  now  dawned  upon  me,  for  the  first  time, 
that  grannie's  room  must  be  next  to  mine,  although  approached 
from  the  other  side,  and  that  the  groan  must  have  been  hers. 
She  might  be  in  need  of  help.    I  remembered  at  the  same  time 
how  she  had  wished  to  have  me  by  her  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  that  she  might  be  able  to  tell  me  w'hat  slie  could  not  re- 
call in  the  day.     I  got  up  at  once,  dressed  myself,  and  stole 
down  the  one  stair,  across  the  kitchen,  and  up  the  other.     I 
gently  opened   grannie's   door,  and   peeped  in.     A  fire  was 
burning  in  the  room.     I  entered  and  approached  the  bed.     I 
wonder  how  I  had  the  courage;  but  children  more  than  grown 
people  are  moved  by  unlikely  impulses.     Grannie  lay  breath- 
ing heavily.     I  stood  for  a  moment.     The  faint  light  flickered 
over  her  white  face.     It  was  the  middle  of  the  night,  and.  the 
tide  of  fear  inseparable  from  the  night  began  to  rise.     My  old 
fear  of  her  began  to  return  with  it.     But  she  lifted  her  lids 
and  the  terror  ebbed  away. 

She  looked  at  me,  but  did  not  seem  to  know^  me.  I  went 
nearer. 

"Grannie,"  I  said,  close  to  her  ear,  and  speaking  low;  "you 
wanted  to  see  me  at  night — that  was  before  I  wxnt  to  school. 
I'm  here,  grannie." 

The  sheet  was  folded  back  so  smooth  that  she  could  hardly 
have  turned  over  since  it  had  been  arranged  for  the  night. 
Her  hand  was  lying  upon  it.  She  lifted  it  feebly  and  stroked 
my  cheek  once  more.  Her  lips  murmured  something  which  I 
could  not  hear,  and  then  came  a  deep  sigh,  almost  a  groan. 
The  terror  returned  when  I  found  she  could  not  speak  to  me. 

"Shall  I  go  and  fetch  auntie?"  I  whispered. 

She  shook  her  head  feebly,  and  looked  wistfully  at  me.  Her 
lips  moved  again.  I  guessed  that  she  wanted  me  to  sit  beside 
her.     I  got  a  chair,  placed  it  by  the  bedside,  and  sat  down. 


I   GO   TO   SCHOOL,    AND   GRANNIE   LEAVES   IT.  55 

She  put  out  her  hand,  as  if  searching  for  something.  I  laid 
mine  in  it.  She  closed  her  fingers  upon  it  and  seemed  satisfied. 
When  I  looked  again,  she  was  asleep  and  breathing  quietly.  I 
was  afraid  to  take  my  hand  from  hers  lest  I  should  w^ake  her. 
I  laid  my  head  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep 
also. 

I  was  awaked  by  a  noise  in  the  room.  It  was  Nannie  light- 
ing the  fire.     When  she  saw  me  she  gave  a  cry  of  terror. 

"Hush,  Nannie!"  I  said;  "you  will  wake  grannie;"  and  as 
I  spoke  I  rose,  for  I  found  my  hand  was  free. 

"Oh,  Master  Willie!"  said  Nannie,  in  a  low  voice;  "how 
did  you  come  here?     You  sent  my  heart  into  my  mouth." 

"Swallow  it  again,  Nannie,"  I  answered,  "and  don't  tell 
auntie.  I  came  to  see  grannie,  and  fell  asleep.  I'm  rather 
cold.     I'll  go  to  bed  now.     Auntie's  not  up,  is  she?" 

"  No.     It's  not  time  for  anybody  to  be  up  yet." 

Nannie  ought  to  have  spent  the  night  in  grannie's  room,  for 
it  was  her  turn  to  watch ;  but  finding  her  nicely  asleep  as  she 
thought,  she  had  slipped  away  for  just  an  hour  of  comfort  in 
bed.  The  hour  had  grown  to  three.  When  she  returned  the 
fire  was  out. 

When  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  the  solemn  look  upon  my 
uncle's  face  caused  me  a  foreboding  of  change. 

"  God  has  taken  grannie  away  in  the  night,  Willie,"  said  he, 
holding  the  hand  I  had  placed  in  his. 

"Is  she  dead?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  Oh,  then,  you  will  let  her  go  to  her  grave  now,  won't  you  ?" 
I  said — the  recollection  of  her  old  grievance  coming  first  in 
association  with  her  death,  and  occasioning  a  more  childish 
speech  than  belonged  to  my  years. 

"Yes.  She'll  get  to  her  grave  now,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a 
trembling  in  her  voice  I  had  never  heard  before. 

"No,"  objected  my  uncle.  "Her  body  will  go  to  tlie 
grave,  but  her  soul  will  go  to  heaven." 

''  Her  soul !  "  I  said.     "  What's  that  ?  " 

"Dear    me,   Willie!    don't    you    know    that?"   said    my 


56  WILFRID  CUMBEKMEDE. 

aunt.  "Don't  you  know  you've  got  a  soul  as  well  as  a 
body?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  haven't,"  I  returned.  "  What  was  grannie's 
like?" 

"  That  I  can't  tell  you,"  she  answered. 

"  Have  you  got  one,  auntie  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  is  yours  like  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  But,"  I  said,  turning  to  my  uncle,  "  if  her  body  goes  to 
the  grave,  and  her  soul  to  heaven,  what's  to  become  of  poor 
grannie — without  either  of  them,  you  see  ? " 

My  uncle  had  been  thinking  while  we  talked. 

"  That  can't  be  the  way  to  represent  the  thing,  Jane :  it 
puzzles  the  child.  No,  Willie;  grannie's  body  goes  to  the 
grave,  but  grannie  herself  is  gone  to  heaven.  What  people 
call  her  soul  is  just  grannie  herself." 

"  Why  don't  they  say  so,  then  ?  " 

My  uncle  fell  a  thinking  again.  He  did  not,  however, 
answer  this  last  question,  for  I  suspect  he  found  that  it  would 
not  be  good  for  me  to  know  the  real  cause — namely,  that  peo- 
V  pie  hardly  believed  it,  and  therefore  did  not  say  it.  Most 
people  believe  far  more  in  their  bodies  than  in  their  souls. 
What  my  uncle  did  say,  was — 

"I  hardly  know.     But  grannie's  gone  to  heaven  anyhow." 

"I'm  so  glad!"  I  said.  "She  will  be  more  comfortable 
there.     She  was  too  old,  you  know,  uncle." 

He  made  me  no  reply.  My  aunt's  apron  was  covering  her 
face,  and  when  she  took  it  away,  I  observed  that  those  eager, 
almost  angry  eyes  were  red  with  weeping.  I  began  to  feel  a 
movement  at  my  heart,  the  first  fluttering  physical  sign  of  a 
waking  love  towards  her. 

"  Don't  cry,  auntie,"  I  said.  "  T  don't  see  anything  to  cry 
about.     Grannie  has  got  what  she  wanted." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  I  sat  down  to  my  breakfast.  I 
don't  know  how  it  was,  but  I  could  not  eat  it.  I  rose  and 
took   my  way  to  the  hollow  in   the  field.     I  felt    a  strange 


I  GO  TO  SCHOOL,  AND  GRANNIE  LEAVES  IT.  57 

exciteraeut,  not  sorrow.  Grannie  was  actually  dead  at  last.  I 
did  not  quite  know  what  it  meant.  I  had  never  seen  a  dead 
body.  Neither  did  I  know  that  she  had  died  while  I  slept 
with  my  hand  in  hers.  Nannie  had  found  her  quite  cold.  Had 
we  been  a  talking  family,  I  might  have  been  uneasy  until  I  had 
told  the  story  of  my  last  interview  with  her;  but  I  never 
thought  of  saying  a  word  about  it.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
now  that  I  was  waked  up  and  sent  to  the  old  woman,  my 
great  grand  mother,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  to  help  her  to 
die  in  comfort.  Who  knows  ?  What  we  can  neither  prove 
nor  comprehend  forms,  I  suspect,  the  infinitely  larger  part  of 
our  being. 

When  I  was  taken  to  see  what  remained  of  grannie,  I  expe- 
rienced nothing  of  the  dismay  which  some  children  feel  at  the 
sight  of  death.  It  was  as  if  she  had  seen  something  just  in 
time  to  leave  the  look  of  it  behind  her  there,  and  so  the  final 
expression  was  a  revelation.  For  a  while  there  seems  to 
remain  this  one  link  between  some  dead  bodies  and  their  livinp* 
spirits.  But  my  aunt,  with  a  common  superstition,  would 
have  me  touch  the  face.  That,  I  confess,  made  me  shudder : 
the  cold  of  death  is  so  unlike  any  other  cold !  I  seemed  to 
feel  it  in  my  hand  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

I  saw  what  seemed  grannie — I  am  too  near  death  myself  to 
consent  to  call  a  dead  body  the  man  or  the  w^oman — laid  in 
the  grave  for  which  she  had  longed,  and  returned  home  with  a 
sense  that  somehow  there  was  a  barrier  broken  down  between 
me  and  my  uncle  and  my  aunt.  I  felt  as  near  my  uncle  now 
as  I  had  ever  been.  That  evening  he  did  not  go  to  his  own 
room,  but  sat  with  my  aunt  and  me  in  the  kitchen-hall.  We 
pulled  the  great  high-backed  oaken  settle  before  the  fire, 
and  my  aunt  made  a  great  blaze,  for  it  was  very  cold.  They 
sat  one  in  each  corner,  and  I  sat  between  them,  and  told  them 
many  things  concerning  the  school.  They  asked  me  questions 
and  encouraged  my  prattle,  seeming  well  pleased  that  the  old 
silence  should  be  broken.  I  fancy  I  brought  them  a  little 
nearer  to  each  other  that  night.  It  was  after  a  funeral,  and  yet 
they  both  looked  happier  than  I  had  ever  seen  them  before. 


58  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I   SIN   AND    REPENT. 

The  Christmas  holidays  went  by  more  rapidly  than  I  had 
expected.  I  betook  myself  with  enlarged  faculty  to  my  book- 
mending,  and  more  than  ever  enjoyed  making  my  uncle's  old 
volumes  tidy.  When  I  returned  to  school,  it  was  with  real 
sorrow  at  parting  from  my  uncle ;  and  even  towards  my  aunt 
I  now  felt  a  growing  attraction. 

I  shall  not  dwell  upon  my  school  history.  That  would  be 
to  spin  out  my  narrative  unnecessarily.  I  shall  only  relate 
such  occurrences  as  are  guide-posts  in  the  direction  of  those 
main  events  which  properly  constitute  my  history. 

I  had  been  about  two  vears  with  ]\Ir.  Elder.  The  usual 
holidays  had  intervened,  upon  which  occasions  I  found  the 
pleasures  of  home  so  multiplied  by  increase  of  liberty  and  the 
enlarged  confidence  of  my  uncle,  who  took  me-  about  with  him 
everywhere,  that  they  were  now  almost  capable  of  rivalling 
those  of  school.  But  before  I  relate  an  incident  which  oc- 
curred in  the  second  autumn,  I  must  say  a  few  words  about 
my  character  at  this  time. 

My  reader  will  please  to  remember  that  I  had  never  been 
driven,  or  oppressed  in  any  way.  The  affair  of  the  watch  was 
quite  an  isolated  iustance,  and  so  immediately  followed  by  the 
change  and  fresh  life  of  school,  that  it  had  not  left  a  mark 
behind.  Nothing  had  yet  occurred  to  generate  in  me  any 
fear  before  the  face  of  man.  I  had  been  vaguely  uneasy  in 
relation  to  my  grandmother,  but  that  uneasiness  had  almost 
vanished  before  her  death.  Hence  the  faith  natural  to  child- 
hood had  received  no  check.  My  aunt  was  at  worst  cold ; 
she  had  never  been  harsh  ;  while  over  Nannie  I  was  absolute 
ruler.  The  only  time  that  evil  had  threatened  me,  I  had 
been  faithfully  defended  by  my  guardian  uncle.     At  school. 


I   SIN   AND    REPENT.  59 

"while  I  found  myself  more  under  law,  I  yet  found  myself  pos- 
sessed of  greater  freedom.  Every  one  was  friendly,  and  more 
than  kind.  From  all  this  the  result  was  that  my  nature  was 
unusually  trusting. 

We  had  a  whole  holiday,  and,  all  seven,  set  out  to  enjoy 
ourselves.  It  was  a  delicious  morning  in  autumn,  clear  and 
cool,  with  a  great  light  in  the  east,  and  the  west  nowhere. 
Neither  the  autumnal  tints  nor  the  sharpening  wind  had  any 
sadness  in  those  years  which  we  call  the  old  years  afterwards. 
How  strange  it  seems  to  have — all  of  us — to  say  with  the  Jew- 
ish poet :  I  have  been  young  and  now  am  old !  A  wood  in 
the  distance,  rising  up  the  slope  of  a  hill,  was  our  goal,  for  we 
were  after  hazel-nuts.  Frolicking,  scampering,  leaping  over 
stiles,  we  felt  the  road  vanish  under  our  feet.  When  we 
gained  the  wood,  although  we  failed  in  our  quest,  we  found 
plenty  of  amusement;  that  grew  everywhere.  At  length  it 
was  time  to  return,  and  we  resolved  on  going  home  by  an- 
other road — one  we  did  not  know. 

After  walking  a  good  distance,  we  arrived  at  a  gate  and  a 
lodge,  where  we  stopped  to  inquire  the  way.  A  kind-faced 
woman  informed  us  that  we  should  shorten  it  much  by  going 
through  the  park,  which,  as  we  seemed  respectable  boys,  she 
would  allow  us  to  do.  We  thanked  her,  entered,  and  went 
walking  along  a  smooth  road,  through  open  sward,  clumps  of 
trees,  and  an  occasional  piece  of  artful  neglect  in  the  shape  of 
rough  hillocks  covered  with  wild  shrubs,  such  as  briar  and 
broom.  It  was  very  delightful,  and  we  walked  along  merrily. 
I  can  yet  recall  the  individual  shapes  of  certain  hawthorn 
trees  we  passed,  whose  extreme  age  had  found  exj^ression  in  a 
wild  grotesqueness,  which  would  have  been  ridiculous,  but  for 
a  dim,  painful  resemblance  to  the  distortion  of  old  age  in  the 
human  family. 

After  walking  some  distance,  we  began  to  doubt  whether  we 
might  not  have  missed  the  way  to  the  gate  of  which  the 
woman  had  spoken.  For  a  wall  appeared,  which,  to  judge 
from  the  tree-tops  visible  over  it,  must  surround  a  kitchen 
garden  or  orchard  ;  and  from  this  we  feared  we  had  come  too 


60  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

nigh  the  house.     We  had  not  gone  much  farther  before  a 
branch,  projecting  over  the  wall,  from   wliose   tip,  as   if  the 
tempter  had  gone  back  to  his  old  tricks,  hung  a  rosy-cheeked 
apple,  drew  our  eyes  and  arrested  our  steps.     There  are  grown 
people  who  cannot,  without  an  effort  of  the  imagination,  figure 
to  themselves  the  attraction  between  a  boy  and  an  apple ;  but 
I  suspect  there  are  others  the  memories  of  whose  boyish  freaks 
will  render  it  yet  more  difficult  for  them  to  understand  a 
single  moment's  contemplation  of  such  an  object  without  the 
endeavor  to  appropriate  it.  To  them  the  boy  seems  made  for  the 
apple,  and  the  apple  for  the  boy.     Rosy,  round-faced,  specta- 
cled Mr.  Elder,  however,  had  such  a  fine  sense  of  honor  in 
himself  that  he  had  been  to  a  rare  degree  successful  in  devel- 
oping a  similar  sense  in  his  boys,  and  I  do  believe  that  not 
one  of  us  would,  under  any  circumstances,  except   possibly 
those  of  terrifying  compulsion,  have  pulled  that  apple.     We 
stood  in   rapt  contemplation  for  a  few  moments,  and   then 
walked  away.     But  although  there-  are  no  degrees  in  Virtue, 
who  will    still    demand    her    uttermost    farthing,  there    are 
degrees  in  the  virtuousness  of  human  beings. 

As  we  walked  away,  I  was  the  last,  and  was  just  passing  from 
under  the  branch  when  something  struck  the  ground  at  my 
heel.  I  turned.  An  apple  must  fall  some  time,  and  for  this 
apple  that  some  time  was  then.  It  lay  at  my  feet.  I  lifted 
it  and  stood  gazing  at  it — I  need  not  say  with  admiration. 
My  mind  fell  a  working.  The  adversary  was  there  and  the 
angel  too.  The  apple  had  dropped  at  my  feet ;  I  had  not 
pulled  it.  There  it  would  lie  wasting,  if  some  one  with  less  right 
than  I — said  the  prince  of  special  pleaders — was  not  the  se- 
cond to  find  it.  Besides,  what  fell  in  the  road  was  public  pro- 
perty. Only  this  was  not  a  public  road,  the  angel  reminded 
me.  My  will  fluttered  from  side  to  side,  now  turning  its  ear  to 
my  conscience,  now  turning  away  and  hearkening  to  my  im- 
pulse. At  last,  weary  of  the  strife,  I  determined  to  settle  it 
by  a  just  contempt  of  trifles — and,  half  in  desperation,  bit  into 
the  ruddy  cheek. 

The  moment  I  saw  the  wound  my  teeth  had  made,  I  knew 


I  SIN   AND   REPENT.  61 

what  I  had  done,  and  my  heart  died  within  me.  I  was  self- 
condemned.  It  was  a  new  and  an  awful  sensation — a  sensa- 
tion that  could  not  be  for  a  moment  endured.  The  misery 
was  too  intense  to  leave  room  for  repentance  even.  With  a 
sudden  resolve  born  of  despair,  I  shoved  the  type  of  the  broken 
law  into  my  pocket  and  followed  my  companions.  But  I  kept 
at  some  distance  behind  them,  for  as  yet  I  dared  not  hold  far- 
ther communication  with  respectable  people.  I  did  not,  and 
do  not  now  believe,  that  there  was  one  amongst  them  who 
would  have  done  as  I  had  done.  Probably  also  not  one  of 
them  would  have  thought  of  my  way  of  deliverance  from  un- 
endurable self-contempt.  The  curse  had  passed  upon  me,  but 
I  saw  a  way  of  escape. 

A  few  yards  further,  they  found  the  road  we  thought  we 
had  missed.  It  struck  off  into  a  hollow,  the  sides  of  which 
were  covered  with  trees.  As  they  turned  into  it  they  looked 
back  and  called  me  to  come  on.  I  ran  as  if  I  wanted  to  over- 
take them,  but  the  moment  they  were  out  of  sight,  left  the 
road  for  the  grass,  and  set  off  at  full  speed  in  the  same  direc- 
tion as  before.  I  had  not  gone  far  before  I  was  in  the  midst 
of  trees,  overflowing  the  hollow  in  which  my  companions  had 
disappeared,  and  spreading  themselves  over  the  level  above. 
As  I  entered  their  shadow,  my  old  awe  of  the  trees  returned 
upon  me — an  awe  I  had  nearly  forgotten,  but  revived  by  my 
crime.  I  pressed  along,  however,  for  to  turn  back  would  have 
been  more  dreadful  than  any  fear.  At  length,  with  a  sudden 
turn,  the  road  left  the  trees  behind,  and  what  a  scene  opened 
before  me !  I  stood  on  the  verge  of  a  large  space  of  green 
sward,  smooth  and  well  kept  as  a  lawn,  but  somewhat  irregu- 
lar in  surface.  From  all  sides  it  rose  towards  the  centre. 
There  a  broad,  low  rock  seemed  to  grow  out  of  it,  and  upon 
the  rock  stood  the  lordliest  house  my  childish  eyes  had  ever 
beheld.  Take  situation  and  all,  and  I  have  scarcely  yet  be- 
held one  to  equal  it.  Half-castle,  half  old  English  country 
seat,  it  covered  the  rock  with  a  huge  square  of  building,  from 
various  parts  of  which  rose  towers,  mostly  square  also,  of  dif- 
ferent heights.     I  stood  for  one  brief  moment  entranced  with 


G2  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

awful  deJio;ht.  A  building  which  has  grown  for  ages,  the  out* 
conic  of  the  life  of  powerful  generations,  has  about  it  a  ma- 
jesty which,  in  certain  moods,  is  overpowering.  For  one  brief 
moment  I  forgot  my  sin  and  its  sorrow.  But  memory  awoke 
with  a  fresh  pang.  To  this  lordly  place  I,  poor  miserable  sin- 
ner, was  a  debtor  by  wrong  and  shame.  Let  no  one  laugh  at 
me  because  my  sin  was  small .  it  was  enough  for  me,  being 
that  of  one  who  had  stolen  for  the  first  time,  and  that  without 
previous  declension,  and  searing  of  the  conscience.  I  hurried 
towards  the  building,  anxiously  looking  for  some  entrance. 

I  had  approached  so  near  that,  seated  on  its  rock,  it  seemed 
to  shoot  its  towers  into  the  zenith,  when,  rounding  a  corner,  I 
came  to  a  part  where  the  height  sank  from  the  foundation  of 
the  house  to  the  level  by  a  grassy  slope,  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope,  espied  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a  white  hat,  who  stood 
with  his  hands  in  his  breeches-pockets,  looking  about  him.  He 
was  tall  and  stout,  and  carried  himself  in  what  seemed  to  me 
a  stately  manner.  As  I  drew  near  him  I  felt  somewhat  en- 
couraged by  a  glimpse  of  his  face,  which  was  rubicund  and,  I 
thought,  good-natured  ;  but  approaching  him  rather  from  be- 
hind, I  could  not  see  it  well.  When  I  addressed  him,  he 
started. 

"  Please,  sir,"  I  said,  "  is  this  your  house  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  man  ;  it  is  my  house,"  he  answered,  looking  down 
on  me  with  bent  neck,  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets. 

"  Please,  sir,"  I  said,  but  here  my  voice  began  to  tremble, 
and  he  grew  dim  and  large  through  the  veil  of  my  gathering 
tears.     I  hesitated. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone  half  jocular, 
half  kind. 

I  made  a  great  effort  and  recovered  my  self-possession. 

"  Please,  sir,"  I  repeated,  "  I  want  you  to  box  my  ears." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  funny  fellow  ?  What  should  I  box  your 
ears  for,  pray  ?" 

"  Because  I've  been  very  wicked,"  I  answered ,  and,  putting 
my  hand  in  my  pocket,  I  extracted  the  bitten  apple,  and  held 
it  up  to  him. 


I   SIN   AND    REPENT.  63 

"  Ho !  ho  !"  he  said,  beginning  to  guess  what  I  must  mean, 
but  hardly  the  less  bewildered  for  that ;  "  is  that  one  of  my 
apples?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  It  fell  down  from  a  branch  that  hung  over  the 
wall.  I  took  it  up,  and — and — I  took  a  bite  of  it,  and — and 
— I'm  so  sorry  !" 

Here  I  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying  which  I  choked  as  much  as 
I  could.  I  remember  quite  well  how,  as  I  stood  holding  out 
the  apple,  my  arm  would  shake  with  the  violence  of  my  sobs. 

"  I'm  not  fond  of  bitten  apples,"  he  said.  "  You  had  better 
eat  it  up  now." 

This  brought  me  to  myself.  If  he  had  shown  me  sympathy 
I  should  have  gone  on  crying. 

"  I  would  Tather  not.     Please  box  my  ears." 

"  I  don't  want  to  box  your  ears.  You're  welcome  to  the 
apple.     Only  don't  take  what's  not  your  own  another  time." 

"  But,  please,  sir,  I'm  so  miserable !" 

"  Home  with  you !  and  eat  your  apple  as  you  go,"  was  his 
unconsoling  response. 

"  I  can't  eat  it ;  I'm  so  ashamed  of  myself" 

"  When  people  do  wrong,  I  suppose  they  must  be  ashamed 
of  themselves.     That's  all  right,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Why  won't  you  box  my  ears,  then  ?"  I  persisted. 

It  was  my  sole  but  unavailing  prayer.  He  turned  away 
towards  the  house.  My  trouble  rose  to  agony.  I  made  some 
wild  motion  of  despair,  and  threw  myself  on  the  grass.  He 
turned,  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then  said  in 
a  changed  tone, — 

"  My  boy,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble 
yourself  any  more.  The  affair  is  not  worth  it.  Such  a  trifle  ! 
What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

I  got  up.  A  new  thought  of  possible  relief  had  crossed  my 
mind. 

"  Please,  sir,  if  you  won't  box  my  ears,  will  you  shake 
hands  w^ith  me  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  I  will,"  he  answered,  holding  out  his  hand,  and 
giving  mine  a  very  kindly  shake.     "  Where  do  you  live  ?" 


G4  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  am  at  school  at  Akiwiek,  at  Mr.  Elder's." 

*'  You're  a  long  way  from  home!" 

"Am  I,  sir?  Will  you  tell  me  how  to  go?  But  it's  of  no 
consequence.  I  don't  mind  anything  now  you've  forgiven  me. 
I  shall  soon  run  home." 

"  Come  with  me  first.     You  must  have  something  to  eat." 

I  wanted  nothing  to  eat,  but  how  could  I  oppose  anything 
he  said  ?  I  followed  him  at  once,  drying  my  eyes  as  I  went. 
He  led  me  to  a  great  gate  which  I  had  passed  before,  and 
opening  a  wicket,  took  me  across  a  court,  and  through  another 
building  where  I  saw  many  servants  going  about ;  then  across 
a  second  court  which  was  paved  with  large  flags,  and  so  to  a 
door  which  he  opened,  calling, 

"  Mrs.  Wilson !  Mrs.  Wilson !  I  want  you  a  moment." 

"Yes,  Sir  Giles,"  answered  a  tall,  stiff-looking  elderly 
woman  who  presently  appeared  descending,  with  upright  spine, 
a  corkscrew  staircase  of  stone. 

"  Here  is  a  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  seems  to 
have  lost  his  way.  He  is  one  of  Mr.  Elder's  pupils  at  Ald- 
wick.  Will  you  get  him  something  to  eat  and  drink,  and 
then  send  him  home?" 

"I  will,  Sir  Giles." 

"  Good-bye,  my  man,"  said  Sir  Giles,  again  shaking  hands 
with  me.  Then  turning  anew  to  the  housekeeper,  for  such  I 
found  she  was,  he  added  : 

"  Couldn't  you  find  a  bag  for  him,  and  fill  it  with  some  of 
those  brown  pippins  ?     They're  good  eating,  ain't  they  ?" 

"  With  pleasure,  Sir  Giles." 

Thereupon  Sir  Giles  withdrew,  closing  the  door  behind  him, 
and  leaving  me  with  the  sense  of  life  from  the  dead. 

"  What's  your  name,  young  gentleman  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wil- 
son, with,  I  thought,  some  degree  of  sternness. 

"  Wilfrid  Cumbermede,"  I  answered. 

She  stared  at  me  a  little,  with  a  stare  which  would  have 
been  a  start  in  most  women.  I  was  by  this  time  calm  enough 
to  take  a  quiet  look  at  her.  She  was  dressed  in  black  silk, 
with  a  white  neckerchief  crossing  in  front,  and  black  mittens 


I   SIN   AND   REPENT.  65 

on  her  hands.  After  gazing  at  me  fixedly  for  a  moment  or 
two,  she  turned  away  and  ascended  the  stair,  which  went  up 
straight  from  the  door,  saying, 

"Come  with  me.  Master  Cumbermede.  You  must  have 
some  tea  before  you  go." 

I  obeyed,  and  followed  her  into  a  long,  low-ceiled  room, 
wainscoted  all  over  in  panels,  with  a  square  moulding  at  the 
top,  which  served  for  a  cornice.  The  ceiling  was  ornamented 
with  plaster  reliefs.  The  windows  looked  out,  on  one  side  unto 
the  court,  on  the  other  upon  the  park.  The  floor  was  black 
and  polished  like  a  mirror,  with  bits  of  carpet  here  and  there, 
and  a  rug  before  the  curious,  old-fashioned  grate,  where  a  little 
fire  was  burning  and  a  small  kettle  boiling  fiercely  on  the  top 
of  it.  The  tea  tray  was  already  on  the  table.  She  got  another 
cup  and  saucer,  added  a  pot  of  jam  to  the  preparations,  and 
said: 

"  Sit  down  and  have  some  bread  and  butter,  while  I  make 
tea." 

She  cut  me  a  great  piece  of  bread,  and  then  a  great  piece 
of  butter,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  discovering  that  the  quality 
was  worthy  of  the  quantity.  Mrs.  Wilson  kept  a  grave  silence 
for  a  good  while.  At  last,  as  she  was  pouring  out  the  second 
cup,  she  looked  at  me  over  the  tea-pot  and  said, 

"  You  don't  remember  your  mother,  I  suppose,  Master  Cum- 
bermede?" 

"  No,  ma'am.     I  never  saw  my  mother." 

"  Within  your  recollection,  )^ou  mean.  But  you  must  have 
seen  her,  for  you  were  two  years  old  when  she  died." 

"  Did  you  know  my  mother,  then,  ma'am  ?"  I  asked,  but 
without  any  great  surprise,  for  the  events  of  the  day  had  been 
so  much  out  of  the  ordinary,  that  I  had  for  the  time  almost 
lost  the  faculty  of  wonder. 

She  compressed  her  thin  lips,  and  a  perpendicular  wrinkle 
appeared  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead,  as  she  answered, 

"  Yes ;  I  knew  your  mother." 

"She  was  very  good,  wasn't  she,  ma'am?"  I  said,  with  my 
mouth  full  of  bread  and  butter. 
5 


66  WILFRID  CTUMBERMEDE. 

"Yes.     Who  told  you  that?" 

"  I  was  sure  of  it.     Nobody  ever  told  me." 

"  Did  they  never  talk  to  you  about  her  ?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"So  you  are  at  Mr.  Elder's  are  you?"  she  said,  after 
another  long  pause,  during  which  I  was  not  idle,  for  my  trouble 
being  gone  I  could  uov>  be  hungry. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

'  How  did  you  come  here,  then  ?  " 

"  I  walked  with  the  rest  of  the  boys ;  but  they  are  gone 
home  without  me." 

Thanks  to  the  kindness  of  Sir  Giles,  my  fault  had  already 
withdrawn  so  far  into  the  past,  that  I  wished  to  turn  my  back 
upon  it  altogether.  I  saw  no  need  for  confessing  it  to  Mrs. 
Wilson  ;  and  there  was  none. 

"  Did  you  lose  your  way  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"What  brought  you  here  then?  I  suppose  you  wanted  to  see 
the  place." 

"  The  woman  at  the  lodge  told  us  the  nearest  way  was 
through  the  park." 

I  quite  expected  she  would  go  on  cross-questioning  me,  and 
then  all  the  truth  would  have  had  to  come  out.  But,  to  my 
great  relief,  she  went  no  further,  only  kept  eyeing  me  in  a 
manner  so  oppressive  as  to  compel  me  to  eat  bread  and  butter 
and  strawberry  jam  with  self-defensive  eagerness.  I  presume 
she  trusted  to  find  out  the  truth  by  and  by.  She  contented 
herself  in  the  meantime  with  asking  questions  about  my  uncle 
and  aunt,  the  farm,  the  school,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Elder,  all 
in  a  cold,  stately,  refraining  manner,  with  two  spots  of  red  in 
her  face — one  on  each  cheek-bone,  and  a  thin  rather  peevish 
nose  dividing  them.  But  her  forehead  was  good,  and  when 
she  smiled,  which  was  not  often,  her  eyes  shone.  Still,  even 
I,  with  my  small  knowledge  of  womankind,  was  dimly  aware 
that  she  was  feeling  her  way  with  me,  and  I  did  not  like  her 
much. 

"  Have  you  nearly  done?"  she  asked  at  length. 


I   SIN   AND    REPENT.  67 

"  Yes,  quite,  thank  you,"  I  answered. 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  school  to-night  T* 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  of  course." 

"  How  are  you  going  ?" 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  the  way " 

"  Do  you  know  how  far  you  are  from  Aldwick  T* 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Eight  miles,"  she  answered  ;  "  and  it's  getting  rather  late." 

I  was  seated  opposite  the  windows  to  the  park,  and,  looking 
up,  saw  wdth  some  dismay  that  the  air  was  getting  dusky.  I 
rose  at  once  saying  — 

"  I  must  make  haste.     They  will  think  I  am  lost." 

"  But  you  can  never  walk  so  far.  Master  Cumbermede." 

"Oh,  but  I  must !  I  can't  help  it.  I  must  get  back  as  fast 
as  possible." 

"  You  can  never  walk  such  a  distance.  Take  another  bit 
of  cake  while  I  go  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

Another  piece  of  cake  being  within  the  bounds  of  possibility, 
I  might  at  least  wait  and  see  what  Mrs.  Wilson's  design  was. 
She  left  the  room  and  I  turned  to  the  cake.  In  a  little  while 
she  came  back,  sat  down  and  went  on  talking.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  get  quite  uneasy,  when  a  maid  put  her  head  in  at  the 
door  and  said, 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Wilson,  the  dog-cart's  ready,  ma'am." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Wilson,^and  turning  to  me,  said — 
more  kindly  than  she  had  yet  spoken — 

"Now,  Master  Cumbermede,  you  must  come  and  see  me 
again.  I'm  too  busy  to  spare  much  time  when  the  family  is 
at  home ;  but  they  are  all  going  away  the  week  after  next, 
and  if  you  will  come  and  see  me  then  I  shall  be  glad  to  show 
you  over  the  house." 

As  she  spoke  she  rose  and  led  the  way  from  the  room,  and 
out  of  the  court  by  another  gate  from  that  by  which  I  had 
entered.  At  the  bottom  of  a  steep  descent,  a  groom  was 
waiting  with  the  dog-cart. 

"  Here,  James,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  "  take  good  care  of  the 
young  gentleman,  and  put  him  down  safe  at    Mr.  Elder's. 


68  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Master  "Wilfrid,  you'll  find  a  hamper  of  apples  underneath. 
You  had  better  not  eat  them  all  yourself,  you  know.  Here 
are  two  or  three  for  you  to  eat  by  the  way." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Wilson.  No ;  I'm  not  quite  so  greedy 
as  that,"  I  answered  gladly,  for  my  spirits  were  high  at  the 
notion  of  a  ride  in  a  dog-cart  instead  of  a  long  and  dreary 
^Yalk. 

When  I  was  fairly  in,  she  shook  hands  with  me,  reminding 
me  that  I  was  to  visit  her  soon,  and  away  went  the  dog-cart 
behind  a  high  stepping  horse.  I  had  never  before  been  in  an 
open  vehicle  of  any  higher  description  than  a  cart,  and  the 
ride  was  a  great  delight.  We  went  a  different  road  from  that 
which  my  companions  had  taken.  It  lay  through  trees  all  the 
way  till  we  were  out  of  the  park. 

"That's  the  land-steward's  house,"  said  James. 

"  Oh,  is  it?"  I  returned,  not  much  interested.  "What  great 
trees  those  are  all  about  it !" 

"  Yes  ;  they're  the  finest  elms  in  all  the  county  those,"  he 
answered.  "  Old  Coningham  knew  what  he  was  about  when 
he  got  the  last  baronet  to  let  him  build  his  nest  there.  Here 
we  are  at  the  gate !" 

We  came  out  upon  a  country  road,  which  ran  between  the 
wall  of  the  park  and  a  wooden  fence  along  a  field  of  grass.  I 
offered  James  one  of  my  apples,  which  he  accepted. 

"  There,  now !"  he  said,  "  there's  a  field ! — A  right  good  bit 
o'  grass  that !  Our  people  has  wanted  to  throw  it  into  the 
park  for  hundreds  of  years.  But  they  won't  part  with  it  for 
love  or  money.  It  ought  by  rights  to  be  ours,  you  see,  by  the 
lie  of  the  country.  It's  all  one  grass  with  the  park.  But  I 
suppose  them  as  owns  it  ain't  of  the  same  mind. — Cur'ous  old 
box!"  he  added,  pointing  with  his  whip  a  long  way  off. 
"  You  can  just  see  the  roof  of  it." 

I  looked  in  the  direction  he  pointed.  A  rise  in  the  ground 
hid  all  but  an  ancient,  high-peaked  roof.  W^hat  was  my 
astonishment  to  discover  in  it  the  roof  of  my  own  home !  I 
was  certain  it  could  be  no  other.  It  caused  a  strange  sensa- 
tion, to  come  upon  it  thus  from  the  outside,  as  it  were,  when  I 


I   SIN   AND   REPENT.  69 

thought  myself  miles  and  miles  away  from  it.  I  fell  a  pon- 
dering over  the  matter ;  and  as  I  reflected  I  became  convinced 
that  the  trees  from  which  we  had  just  emerged  were  the  same 
which  used  to  churn  the  wind  for  my  childish  fancies.  I  did 
not  feel  inclined  to  share  my  feelings  with  my  new  acquaint- 
ance ;  but  presently  he  put  his  whip  in  the  socket  and  fell  to 
eating  his  apple.  There  was  nothing  more  in  the  conversation 
he  afterwards  resumed  deserving  of  record.  He  pulled  up  at 
the  gate  of  the  school,  where  I  bade  him  good-night  and  rang 
the  bell. 

There  was  great  rejoicing  over  me  when  I  entered,  for  the 
boys  had  arrived  without  me  a  little  while  before,  having 
searched  all  about  the  place  where  we  had  parted  company, 
and  came  at  length  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had  played  them 
a  trick  in  order  to  get  home  without  them,  there  having  been 
some  fun  on  the  road  concerning  my  local  stupidity.  Mr. 
Elder,  however,  took  me  to  his  own  room,  and  read  me  a  lec- 
ture on  the  necessity  of  not  abusing  my  privileges.  I  told 
him  the  whole  affair  from  beginning  to  end,  and  thought  he 
behaved  very  oddly.  He  turned  away  every  now  and  then, 
blew  his  nose,  took  off  his  spectacles,  wiped  them  carefully 
and  replaced  them  before  turning  again  to  me. 

"  Go  on,  go  on,  my  boy.     I'm  listening,"  he  would  say. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  he  was  laughing  or  crying.  I  suspect 
both.     When  I  had  finished,  he  said,  very  solemnly, 

"  Wilfrid,  you  have  had  a  narrow  escape.  I  need  not  tell 
you  how  wrong  you  were  about  the  apple,  for  you  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do.  But  you  did  the  right  thing  when  your  eyes 
were  opened.  I  am  greatly  pleased  with  you,  and  greatly 
obliged  to  Sir  Giles.  I  will  write  and  thank  him  this  very 
night." 

"  Please,  sir,  ought  I  to  tell  the  boys?     I  would  rather  not." 

"  No.     I  do  not  think  it  necessary." 

He  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Ask  Master  Fox  to  step  this  way." 

Fox  was  the  oldest  boy,  and  was  on  the  point  of  leaving. 

"  Fox,"  said  Mr.  Elder,  "  Cumbermede  has  quite  satisfied 


70  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

me.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  asking  him  do  questions?  T  ana 
quite  aware  such  a  request  must  seem  strange,  but  I  have 
good  reasons  for  making  it?." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Fox,  glancing  at  me. 

"Take  him  with  you  then,  and  tell  the  rest.  It  is  as 
a  favor  to  myself  that  I  put  it,  Fox." 

"  That  is  quite  enough,  sir." 

Fox  took  me  to  Mrs.  Elder,  and  had  a  talk  with  the  rest 
before  I  saw  them.  Some  twenty  years  after.  Fox  and  I  had 
it  out.  I  gave  him  a  full  explanation,  for  by  that  time  I 
could  smile  over  the  affair.  But  what  does  the  object  matter? 
— an  apple,  or  a  thousand  pounds?  It  is  but  the  peg  on 
which  the  act  hangs.     The  act  is  everything. 

To  the  honor  of  my  schoolfellows  I  record  that  not  one  of 
them  ever  let  fall  a  hint  in  the  direction  of  the  mystery. 
Neither  did  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Elder  once  allude  to  it.  If  possible 
they  were  kinder  than  before. 


I   BUILI>   CASTLES.  7i 


CHAPTER  X. 

I    BUILD   CASTLES. 

My  companions  had  soon  found  out,  and  I  think  the  dis- 
covery had  something  to  do  with  the  kindness  they  always 
showed  me,  that  I  was  a  good  hand  at  spinning  a  yarn  :  the 
nautical  phrase  had  got  naturalized  in  the  school.  We  had 
no  chance,  if  we  would  have  taken  it,  of  spending  any  part 
of  school  hours  in  such  a  pastime  ;  but  it  formed  an  unfailing 
amusement  when  weather  or  humor  interfered  with  bodily 
exercises.  Nor  were  we  debarred  from  the  pleasure  after  we 
had  retired  for  the  night, — only  as  we  were  parted  in  three 
rooms,  I  could  not  have  a  large  audience  then.  I  well 
remember,  however,  one  occasion  on  wliich  it  was  otherwise. 
The  report  of  a  super-excellent  invention  having  gone  abroad, 
one  by  one  they  came'  creeping  into  my  room,  after  I  and  my 
companion  were  in  bed  until  we  lay  three  in  each  bed,  all 
being  present  but  Fox.  At  the  very  heart  of  the  climax, 
when  a  spectre  was  appearing  and  disappearing  momently 
with  the  drawing  in  and  sending  out  of  his  breath,  so  that 
you  could  not  tell  the  one  moment  where  he  might  show 
himself  the  next,  Mr.  Elder  walked  into  the  room  with  his 
chamber-candle  in  his  hand,  straightway  illuminating  six 
countenances  pale  with  terror — for  I  took  my  full  share  of 
whatever  emotion  I  roused  in  the  rest.  But  instead  of  laying 
a  general  interdict  on  the  custom,  he  only  said, 

"  Come,  come,  boys  !  it's  time  you  were  asleep.  Go  to  your 
rooms  directly." 

"  Please,  sir,"  faltered  one — Moberly  by  name — the  dullest 
and  most  honorable  boy,  to  my  thinking,  amongst  us,  "  mayn't 
I  stay  where  I  am  ?     Cumbermede  has  put  me  all  in  a  shiver." 

Mr.  Elder  laughed,  and  turning  to  me,  asked  with  hia 
usual  good  humor, 


72  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

"How  long  will  your  story  take,  Cumbermede ?" 

"As  long  a;3  you  please,  sir,"  I  answered. 

"  I  can't  let  you  keep  them  awake  all  night,  you  know." 

"  There's  no  fear  of  that,  sir,"  I  replied.  "  Moberly  would 
have  been  asleep  long  ago  if  it  hadn't  been  a  ghost.  Nothing 
keeps  him  awake  but  ghosts." 

"  Well,  is  the  ghost  nearly  done  with  ?  " 

"Not  quite,  sir.     The  worst  is  to  come  yet." 

"  Please,  sir,"  interposed  Moberly,  "  if  you'll  let  me  stay 
where  I  am,  I'll  turn  round  on  my  deaf  ear,  and  won't  listen 
to  a  word  more  of  it.     It's  awful,  I  do  assure  you,  sir." 

Mr.  Elder  laughed  again. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  Make  haste  and  finish  your  story, 
Cumbermede,  and  let  them  go  to  sleep.  You,  Moberly,  may 
stay  where  you  are  for  the  night,  but  I  can't  have  this  made,  a 
practice  of." 

"  No,  no,  sir,"  said  several  at  once. 

"  But  why  don't  you  tell  your  stories  by  daylight,  Cumber- 
mede ?     I'm  sure  you  have  time  enough  for  them  then." 

"  Oh,  but  he's  got  one  going  for  the  day  and  another  for  the 
night." 

"Then  do  you  often  lie  three  in  a  bed?"  asked  Mr.  Elder 
with  some  concern. 

"  Oh  no,  sir.     Only  this  is  an  extra  good  one,  you  see." 

Mr.  Elder  laughed  again,  bade  us  good-night,  and  left  us. 
The  horror  however  was  broken.  I  could  not  call  up  one 
shiver  more,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Moberly,  as  well  as  his  two 
companions,  had  slipped  away  to  roomier  quarters. 

The  material  of  the  tales  I  told  my  companions  was  in  part 
supplied  from  some  of  my  uncle's  old  books,  for  in  his  little 
library  there  were  more  than  the  Arcadia  of  the  same  sort. 
But  these  had  not  merely  afforded  me  the  stuif  to  remodel  and 
imitate;  their  spirit  had  wrought  upon  my  spirit,  and  armor 
and  war-horses  and  mighty  swords  -were  only  the  instruments 
with  which  faithful  knights  wrought  honorable  deeds. 

I  had  a  tolerably  clear  perception  that  such  deeds  could  not 
be  done  in  our  days ;  that  there  were  no  more  dragons  lying  in 


I   BUILD   CASTLES.  73 

the  woods ;  and  that  ladies  did  not  now  fall  into  the  hands  of 
giants.  But  I  had  the  witness  of  an  eternal  impulse  in  my- 
self that  noble  deeds  had  yet  to  be  done,  and  therefore  might 
be  done,  although  I  knew  not  how.  Hence  a  feeling  of  the 
dignity  of  ancient  descent,  as  involving  association  with  great 
men  and  great  actions  of  old,  and  therefore  rendering  such 
more  attainable  in  the  future,  took  deep  root  in  my  mind. 
Aware  of  the  humbleness  of  my  birth,  and  unrestrained  by 
pride  in  my  parents — I  had  lost  them  so  early — I  would  in- 
dulge in  many  a  day-dream  of  what  I  would  gladly  have  been. 
I  would  ponder  over  the  delights  of  having  a  history,  and  how 
grand  it  would  be  to  find  I  was  descended  from  some  far-away 
knight  who  had  done  deeds  of  high  emprise.  In  such  moods 
the  recollection  of  the  old  sword  that  had  vanished  from  the 
wall  would  return:  indeed  the  impression  it  had  made  upon 
me  may  have  been  at  the  root  of  it  all.  How  I  longed  to 
know  the  story  of  it!  But  it  had  gone  to  the  grave  with 
grannie.  If  my  uncle  or  aunt  knew  it,  I  had  no  hope  of  get- 
ting it  from  either  of  them  ;  for  I  was  certain  they  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  any  such  fancies  as  mine.  My  favorite  invention, 
one  for  which  my  audience  was  sure  to  call  when  I  professed 
incompetence,  and  which  I  enlarged  and  varied  every  time  I 
returned  to  it,  was  of  a  youth  in  humble  life  who  found  at , 
length  he  was  of  far  other  origin  than  he  had  supposed.  I  did 
not  know  then  that  the  fancy,  not  uncommon  with  boys,  has 
its  roots  in  the  deepest  instincts  of  our  human  nature.  I  need 
not  add  that  I  had  not  yet  read  Jean  Paul's  Titan,  or  Hespe- 
rus, or  Comet. 

This  tendency  of  thought  received  a  fresh  impulse  from  my 
visit  to  Moldwarp  Hall,  as  I  choose  to  name  the  great  house 
whither  my  repentance  had  led  me.  It  was  the  first  I  had 
ever  seen  to  wake  the  sense  of  the  mighty  antique.  My  home 
was,  no  doubt,  older  than  some  parts  of  the  hall;  but  the  house 
we  are  born  in  never  looks  older  than  the  last  generation  until 
we  begin  to  compare  it  with  others.  By  this  time,  what  I  had 
learned  of  the  history  of  my  country,  and  the  general  growth 
of  the  allied  forces  of  my  intellect,  had  rendered  me  capable 


!*/' 


74  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

of  feeling  the  hoary  eld  of  the  great  Hall.  Henceforth  it  had 
a  part  in  every  invention  of  my  boyish  imagination. 

1  ^vas  therefore  not  undesirous  of  keeping  the  half-engage- 
ment I  had  made  with  Mrs.  Wilson  ;  but  it  was  not  she  that 
drew  me.  With  all  her  kindness,  she  had  not  attracted  me; 
for  cupboard-love  is  not  the  sole,  or  always  the  most  powerful 
operant  on  the  childish  mind :  it  is  in  general  stronger  in  men 
than  in  either  children  or  women.  I  would  rather  not  sec  Mrs. 
Wilson  again — she  had  fed  my  body,  she  had  not  warmed  my 
heart.  It  was  the  grand  old  house  that  attracted  me.  True, 
it  was  associated  with  shame,  but  rather  with  the  recovery  from 
it  than  with  the  fall  itself;  and  what  memorials  of  ancient 
grandeur  and  knightly  ways  must  lie  within  those  walls,  to 
harmonize  w^ith  my  many  dreams  ! 

On  the  next  holiday,  Mr.  Elder  gave  me  a  ready  permission 
to  revisit  Moldwarp  Hall.  I  had  made  myself  acquamted  with 
the  nearest  W' ay  by  crossroads  and  footpaths,  and  fiill  of  expec- 
tation, set  out  with  my  companions.  They  accompanied  me 
the  greater  part  of  the  distance,  and  left  me  at  a  certain  gate, 
the  same  by  which  they  had  come  out  of  the  park  on  the  day 
of  my  first  visit.  I  was  glad  when  they  were  gone,  for  I  could 
then  indulge  my  excited  fancy  at  wdll.  I  heard  their  voices 
draw  away  into  the  distance.  I  was  alone  on  a  little  footpath 
which  led  through  a  wood.  All  about  me  were  strangely  tall 
and  slender  oaks ;  but  as  I  advanced  into  the  w^ood,  the  trees 
grew  more  various,  and  in  some  of  the  opener  spaces,  great  old 
oaks,  short  and  big-headed,  stretched  out  their  huge  shadow- 
filled  arms  in  true  oak-fashion.  The  ground  was  uneven,  and 
the  path  led  up  and  down  over  hollow  and  hillock,  now  cross- 
ing a  swampy  bottom,  now  climbing  the  ridge  of  a  rocky  emi- 
nence. It  was  a  lovely  forenoon,  with  gray-blue  sky  and  white 
clouds.  The  sun  shone  plentifully  into  the  wood,  for  the  leaves 
were  thin.  They  hung  like  clouds  of  gold  and  royal  purple 
above  my  head,  layer  over  layer,  v»'ith  the  blue  sky  and  the 
snowy  clouds  shining  through.  On  the  ground  it  was  a  world 
of  shadows  and  sunny  streaks,  kept  ever  in  interfluent  motion 
by  such  a  wind  as  John  Skelton  describes : — 


I   BUILD   CASTLES.  75 

There  blew  in  that  gardynge  a  soft  piplyng  cold 
Enbrethjng  of  Zupberus  with  his  pleasant  wynde. 

I  went  merrily  along.  The  birds  were  not  singing,  but  my 
heart  did  not  need  them.  It  was  spring-time  there  whatever  it 
might  be  in  the  world.  The  heaven  of  my  childhood  wanted 
no  lark  to  make  it  gay.  Had  the  trees  been  bare  and  the  frost 
shining  on  the  ground,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same.  The 
sunlight  was  enough. 

I  was  standing  on  the  root  of  a  great  beech-tree,  gazing  up 
into  the  gulf  of  its  foliage,  and  watching  the  broken  lights 
playing  about  in  the  leaves  and  leaping  from  twig  to  branch, 
like  birds  yet  more  golden  than  the  leaves,  when  a  voice 
startled  me. 

"You're  not  looking  for  apples  in  a  beech-tree,  hey?"  it  said. 

I  turned  instantly,  with  my  heart  in  a  flutter.  To  my  great 
relief  I  saw  that  the  speaker  was  not  Sir  Giles,  and  that  pro- 
bably no  allusion  was  intended.  But  my  first  apprehension 
made  way  only  for  another  pang,  for,  although  I  did  not  know 
the  man,  a  strange  dismay  shot  through  me  at  sight  of  him. 
His  countenance  was  associated  with  an  undefined  but  painful 
fact  that  lay  crouching  in  a  dusky  hollow  of  my  memory.  I 
had  no  time  now  to  entice  it  into  the  light  of  recollection.  I 
took  heart  and  spoke. 

" No,"  I  answered j  "I  was  only  watching  the  sun  on  the 
leaves." 

"Very  pretty,  ain't  it?  Ah,  it's  lovely!  It's  quite  beautiful 
— ain't  it  now?  You  like  good  timber,  don't  you?  —  Trees,  I 
mean,"  he  explained,  aware,  I  suppose,  of  some  perplexity  on 
my  countenance. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.     "I  like  big  old  ones  best." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  returned,  with  an  energy  that  sounded  strange 
and  jarring  to  my  mood ;  "big  old  ones,  that  have  stood  for 
ages — the  monarchs  of  the  forest.  Saplings  ain't  bad  things 
either,  though.  But  old  ones  are  best.  Just  come  here,  and 
I'll  show  you  one  worth  looking  at.  It  wasn't  planted  yester- 
day, I  can  tell  you." 

I  followed  him  along  tlie  path,  until  we  came  out  of  the 


76  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

wood.  Beyond  us  the  ground  rose  steep  and  high,  and  was 
covered  with  trees,  but  here  iu  the  hollow  it  was  open.  A 
stream  ran  along  between  us  and  the  height.  On  this  side  of 
the  stream  stood  a  mighty  tree,  towards  which  my  companion 
led  me.  It  was  an  oak  with  such  a  bushy  head  and  such  great 
roots  rising  in  serpent  rolls  and  heaves  above  the  ground,  that 
the  stem  looked  stunted  between  them. 

"There!"  said  my  companion;  "there's  a  tree!  there's  some- 
thing like  a  tree!  How  a  man  must  feel  to  call  a  tree  like 
that  his  own !  That's  Queen  Elizabeth's  oak.  It  is  indeed. 
England  is  dotted  with  would-be  Queen  Elizabeth's  oaks ;  but 
there  is  the  very  oak  she  admired  so  much  that  she  ordered 
luncheon  to  be  served  under  it.  .  .  Ah  !  she  knew  the  value 
of  timber — did  good  Queen  Bess.  That's  now — now — let  me 
see — the  year  after  the  Armada — nine  from  fifteen — ah  well, 
somewhere  about  two  hundred  and  thirty  years  ago." 
"How  lumpy  and  hard  it  looks!"  I  remarked. 
"  That's  the  breed  and  the  age  of  it,"  he  returned.  "  The 
wonder  to  me  is  they  don't  turn  to  stone  and  last  for  ever,  those 
trees.     Ah  I  there's  something  to  live  for  now !" 

He  had  turned  away  to  resume  his  walk,  but  as  he  finished 
the  sentence,  he  turned  again  towards  the  tree,  and  shook  his 
finger  at  it.  as  if  reproachmg  it  for  belonging  to  somebody  else 
than  himself. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now?"  he  asked,  wheeling  round 
upon  me  sharply,  with  a  keen  look  in  his  magpie-eyes,  as  the 
French  would  call  them,  which  hardly  corresponded  with  tho 
bluntness  of  his  address. 

"  I'm  going  to  the  Hall,"  I  answered,  turning  away. 
"  You'll  never  get  there  that  way.     How  are  you  to  cross 
the  river?'* 

"  I  don't  know.     I've  never  been  this  way  before." 
"  You've  been  to  the  Hall  before  then  ?   Whom  do  you  know 
there  r 

"  Mrs.  Wilson,"  J  answered. 

"  Hem !   ha !     You    know  Mrs.   Wilson,   do    you  ?    Nice 
woman,  Mrs.  Wilson!" 


I   BUILD   CASTLES.  77 

He  said  this  as  if  he  meant  the  opposite. 
"  Here,"  he  went  on — "  come  with  me.     I'll  show  you  the 
way." 

I  obeyed  and  followed  him  along  the  bank  of  the  stream. 

"  What  a  curious  bridge !"  I  exclaimed  as  we  came  in 
sight  of  an  ancient  structure  lifted  high  in  the  middle  on  the 
point  of  a  Gothic  arch. 

"Yes,  ain't  it?'  he  said.  "Curious?  I  should  think  so! 
And  well  it  may  be !  It's  as  old  as  the  oak  there  at  least. 
There's  a  bridge  now  for  a  man  like  Sir  Giles  to  call  liLs 
own  f" 

''He  can't  keep  it  though,"  I  said,  moralizing;  for,  in 
carrying  on  the  threads  of  my  stones,  I  had  come  to  see  that 
no  climax  could  last  forever. 

"  Can't  keep  it !  He  could  carry  off  every  stone  of  it  if  he 
liked." 

"  Then  it  wouldn't  be  the  bridge  any  longer." 

"  You're  a  sharp  one,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  truly  enough,  I  seemed  to 
myself  to  be  talking  sense,  that  was  all. 

"  Well  I  do.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  he  couldn't 
keep  it  ?" 

"  It's  been  a  good  many  people's  already,  and  it'll  be  some- 
body else's  some  day,"  I  replied. 

He  did  not  seem  to  relish  the  suggestion,  for  he  gave  a 
kind  of  grunt,  which  gradually  broke  mto  a  laugh  as  he 
answered, 

"  Likely  enough  !  likely  enough  !" 

We  had  now  come  round  to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  and  I 
saw  that  it  was  far  more  curious  than  I  had  perceived 
before. 

"  Why  IS  it  so  narrow  ?  "  I  asked  wonderingly,  for  it  was 
not  three  feet  wide,  and  had  a  parapet  of  stone  about  three 
feet  high  on  each  side  of  it. 

"  Ah !  "  he  replied  ,  "  that's  it,  you  see.  As  old  as  the 
hills.  It  was  built,  this  bridge  was,  before  ever  a  carriage  was 
made — yes   before  ever  a  carrier's  cart  went  along  a  road. 


78  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

They  carried  everything  then  upon  horses'  backs.  They  call 
this  the  pack-horse  bridge.  You  see  there's  room  for  the 
horses'  legs,  and  their  loads  could  stick  out  over  the  parapets. 
That's  the  way  they  carried  everything  to  the  Hall  then. 
That  was  a  few  years  before  you  were  born,  young  gen- 
tleman." 

''But  they  couldn't  get  their  legs— the  horses,  I  mean — 
couldn't  ^et  their  legs  through  this  narrow  opemng,"  I 
objected  ,  for  a  flat  stone  almost  blocked  up  each  end. 

"  No  :  that's  true  enough.  But  those  stones  have  been  up 
only  a  hundred  years  or  so.  They  didn't  want  it  for  pack- 
horses  any  more  then,  and  the  stones  were  put  up  to  keep  the 
cattle,  with  which  at  some  time  or  other  I  suppose  some 
thrifty  owner  had  stocked  the  park,  from  crossing  to  this 
meadow.  That  would  be  before  those  trees  were  planted  up 
there" 

When  we  crossed  the  stream,  he  stopped  at  the  other  end  of 
the  bridge  and  said, 

"  Now,  you  go  that  way — up  the  hill.  There's  a  kind  of 
a  path  if  you  can  find  it,  but  it  doesn't  much  matter.  Good 
morning." 

He  -svalked  away  down  the  bank  of  the  stream,  while  I 
struck  into  the  wood. 

When  I  reached  the  top  and  emerged  from  the  trees  that 
skirted  the  ridge,  there  stood  the  lordly  Hall  before  me, 
shining  in  autumnal  sunlight,  with  gilded  vanes,  and  diamond- 
paned  windows,  as  if  it  were  a  rock  against  which  the  gentle 
waves  of  the  sea  of  light  rippled  and  broke  in  flashes.  When 
you  looked  at  its  foundation,  which  seemed  to  have  torn  its 
way  up  through  the  clinging  sward,  you  could  not  tell  where 
the  building  began  and  the  rock  ended.  In  some  parts 
indeed  the  rock  was  wrought  into  the  walls  of  the  house; 
while  in  others  it  was  faced  up  with  stone  and  mortar.  My 
heart  beat  high  with  vague  rejoicing.  Grand  as  the  aged  oak 
had  looked,  here  was  a  grander  growth — a  growth  older  too 
than  the  oak,  and  inclosing  within  it  a  thousand  histories. 

I  approached  the  gate  by  which  Mrs.  Wilson  had  dismissed 


I   BUILD   CASTLES.  79 

me.  A  flight  of  rude  steps  cut  in  the  rock  led  to  the 
portcullis  which  still  hung,  now  fixed  in  its  place,  in  front  of 
the  gate ;  for  though  the  Hall  had  no  external  defences,  it 
had  been  well  fitted  for  the  half-sieges  of  troublous  times.  A  y 
modern  mansion  stands,  with  its  broad  sweep  up  to  the  wide 
door,  like  its  hospitable  owner  in  full  dress  and  broad-bosomed 
shirt  on  his  own  hearth-rug ;  this  ancient  house  stood  with  its 
back  to  the  world,  like  one  of  its  ancient  owners,  ready  to 
ride,  in  morion,  breast-plate,  and  jack-boots — yet  not  armed 
cap-a-pie,  not  like  a  w^alled  castle,  that  is. 

I  ascended  the  steps,  and  stood  before  the  arch — filled  with 
a  great  iron-studded  oaken  gate — which  led  through  a  square 
tower  into  the  court.  I  stood  gazing  for  some  minutes  before 
I  rang  the  bell.  Two  things  in  particular  I  noticed,  The 
first  was — over  the  arch  of  the  door  way,  tamongst  others — one 
device  very  like  the  animal's  head  upon  the  watch  and  the 
seal  which  my  great-grandmother  had  given  me.  I  could  not 
be  sure  it  was  the  same,  for  the  shape — both  in  the  stone  and 
in  my  memory— was  considerably  worn.  The  other  interested 
me  far  more.  In  the  great  gate  was  a  small  wicket,  so  small 
that  there  was  hardly  room  for  me  to  pass  without  stooping. 
A  thick  stone  threshold  lay  before  it ;  the  spot  where  the 
right  foot  must  fall  in  stepping  out  of  the  wicket,  was  worn 
into  the  shape  of  a  shoe,  to  the  depth  of  between  three  and 
four  inches  I  should  judge,  vertically  into  the  stone.  The 
deep  foot-mould  conveyed  to  me  a  sense  of  the  coming  and 
going  of  generations,  such  as  I  could  not  gather  from  the  age- 
worn  walls  of  the  building. 

A  great  bell-handle  at  the  end  of  a  jointed  iron  rod,  hung 
down  by  the  side  of  the  wicket.  I  rang.  An  old  w^oman 
opened  the  wicket,  and  allowed  me  to  enter.  I  thought  I  re- 
membered the  way  to  Mrs.  Wilson's  door  well  enough,  but 
when  I  had  ascended  the  few  broad  steps,  curved  to  the  shape 
of  the  corner  in  which  the  entrance  stood,  and  found  myself 
in  the  flagged  court,  I  was  bewildered,  and  had  to  follow  the 
retreating  portress  tor  directions.  A  word  set  me  right,  and  I 
was  soon  in  Mrs.  Wilson's  presence.     She  received  me  kindly, 


bO  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

and  expressed  her  satisfaction  that  I  had  kept  what  she  waa 
pleased  to  consider  mj  engagement. 

After  some  refreshment  and  a  little  talk,  Mrs.  Wilson 
said, 

"  Now,  Master  Cumbermede,  wonld  you  like  to  go  and  see 
the  gardens,  or  take  a  walk  in  the  park  and  look  at  the 
deer?" 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Wilson,"  I  returned,  "  you  promised  to  show 
me  the  house." 

"  You  would  like  that,  would  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered, — "  better  than  anything." 

"  Come,  then,"  she  said,  and  took  a  bunch  of  keys  from  the 
wall.  "  Some  of  the  rooms  I  lock  up  when  the  family's 
away." 

It  was  a  vast  place.  Roughly  it  may  be  described  as  a 
large  oblong  which  the  great  hall,  with  the  kitchen  and  its 
oiRces,  divided  into  tAvo  square  courts — the  one  flagged,  the 
other  gravelled.  A  passage  dividing  the  hall  from  the 
kitchen  led  through  from  the  one  court  to  the  other.  We 
entered  this  central  portion  through  a  small  tower ;  and  after  a 
peep  at  the  hall,  ascended  to  a  room  above  the  entrance, 
accessible  from  an  open  gallery  which  ran  along  two  sides  of 
the  hall.  The  room  was  square,  occupying  the  area-space  of 
the  little  entrance  tower.  To  my  joyous  amazement,  its  walls 
were  crowded  with  swords,  daggers — weapons  in  endless 
variety,  mingled  with  guns  and  pistols,  for  which  I  cared  less. 
Some  which  had  hilts  curiously  carved  and  even  jewelled, 
seemed  of  foreign  make ;  their  character  was  different  from 
that  of  the  rest ;  but  most  were  evidently  of  the  same  family 
with  the  one  sword  I  knew.  Mrs.  Wilson  could  tell  me 
nothing  about  them.  All  she  knew  was,  that  this  was  the 
armory,  and  that  Sir  Giles  had  a  book  with  something  written 
in  it  about  every  one  of  the  weapons.  They  were  no  chance 
collection :  each  had  a  history.  I  gazed  in  wonder  and 
delight.  Above  the  weapons  hung  many  pieces  of  armor — no 
entire  suits,  however  ;  of  those  there  were  several  in  the  hall 
below.     Finding  that   Mrs.   Wilson  did  not  object  to   my 


I   BUILD   CASTLES.  81 

handling  the  weapons  within  my  reach,  I  was  soon  so  much 
absorbed  in  the  examination  of  them,  that  I  started  when  she 
spoke. 

"You  shall  come  again,  Master  Cumbermede,"  she  said. 
"  We  must  go  now." 

I  replaced  a  Highland  broadsword,  and  turned  to  follow 
her.  She  was  evidently  pleased  with  the  alacrity  of  my  obedi- 
ence, and  for  the  first  time  bestowed  on  me  a  smile  as  she  led 
the  way  from  the  armory  by  another  door.  To  my  enhanced 
delight  this  door  led  into  the  library.  Gladly  would  I  have 
lingered,  but  Mrs.  Wilson  walked  on,  and  I  followed,  through 
rooms  and  rooms,  low-pitched,  and  hung  with  tapestry,  some 
carpeted,  some  floored  with  black  polished  oak,  others  with 
some  kind  of  cement  or  concrete,  all  filled  with  ancient  furni- 
ture whose  very  aspect  was  a  speechless  marvel.  Out  of  one 
into  another,  along  endless  passages,  up  and  down  winding 
stairs,  now  looking  from  the  summit  of  a  lofty  tower  upon  ter- 
races and  gardens  below — now  lost  in  gloomy  arches,  again 
out  upon  acres  of  leads,  and  now  bathed  in  the  sweet  gloom  of 
the  ancient  chapel  with  its  stained  windows  of  that  old  glass 
which  seems  nothing  at  first,  it  is  so  modest  and  harmonious, 
but  which  for  that  very  reason  grows  into  a  poem  in  the 
brain  :  you  see  it  last  and  love  it  best — I  followed  with  una- 
bating  delight. 

When  at  length  Mrs.  Wilson  said  I  had  seen  the  whole,  I 
begged  her  to  let  me  go  again  into  the  library,  for  she  had  not 
given  me  a  moment  to  look  at  it.     She  consented. 

It  was  a  part  of  the  house  not  best  suited  for  the  purpose, 
connected  with  the  armory  by  a  descent  of  a  few  steps.  It  lay 
over  some  of  the  housekeeping  department,  was  too  near  the 
great  hall,  and  looked  into  the  flagged  court.  A  library 
should  be  on  the  ground  floor  in  a  quiet  wing,  with  an  outlook 
on  grass,  and  the  possibility  of  gaining  it  at  once  without 
going  through  long  passages.  Nor  was  the  library  itself, 
architecturally  considered,  at  all  superior  to  its  position. 
The  books  had  greatly  outgrown  the  space  allotted  to  them, 
and  several  of  the  neighboring  rooms  had  been  annexed  as 
6 


82  ^VILFIlID    CUMBERMEDE. 

occasion  required  ;  hence  it  consisted  of  half  a  dozen  rooms, 
some  of  them  merely  closets  intended  for  dressing-rooms,  and 
all  very  ill  lighted.  I  entered  it  however  in  no  critical  spirit, 
hut  with  a  feeling  of  reverential  delight.  My  uncle's  books 
had  tauscht  me  to  love  books.  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
consider  his  five  hundred  volumes  a  wonderful  library  ;  but 
here  were  thousands — as  old,  as  musty,  as  neglected,  as  dilapi- 
dated, therefore  as  certainly  full  of  wonder  and  discovery,  as 
man  or  boy  could  wish. — Oh  the  treasures  of  a  house  that  has 
been  growing  for  ages !  I  leave  a  whole  roomful  of  lethal 
weapons,  to  descend  three  steps  into  six  rooms  full  of  books — 
each  "  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit " — for  as  yet  in 
my  eyes  all  books  were  worthy !  Which  did  I  love  best  ?  Old 
swords  or  old  books  ?  I  could  not  tell.  I  had  only  the  grace 
to  know  which  I  ought  to  love  best. 

As  we  passed  from  the  first  room  into  the  second,  up  rose  a 
white  thing  from  a  corner  of  the  window-seat,  and  came  towards 
us.     I  started.     Mrs.  Wilson  exclaimed  : 

"La!  Miss  Clara!  however ?" 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  abyss  of  possibility. 

"  They  told  me  you  were  somewhere  about,  Mrs.  Wilson, 
and  I  thought  I  had  better  wait  here.     How  do  you  do  ?" 

"  La,  child,  you've  given  me  such  a  turn !"  said  Mrs. 
Wilson.  "  You  might  have  been  a  ghost  if  it  had  been  in  the 
middle  of  the  night." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Wilson,"  said  the  girl  merrily. 
"  Only  you  see  if  it  had  been  a  ghost  it  couldn't  have  been 
me." 

"  How's  your  papa.  Miss  Clara  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  he's  always  quite  well." 

"  When  did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  To-day.     He's  at  home  with  grandpapa  now." 

"  And  you  ran  away  and  left  him." 

"Not  quite  that.  He  and  grandpapa  went  out  about. some 
business — to  the  copse  at  Deadman's  Hollow,  I  think.  They 
didn't  want  my  advice — they  never  do ;  so  I  came  to  see  you, 
Mrs.  Wilson." 


SUE    WAS    A    YEAR    OR    TWO    OLDER    THAN    MYSELF,     I    THOUGHT. 


I    BUILD   CASTLES.  83 

By  this  time  I  had  been  able  to  look  at  the  girl.  She  was  a 
year  or  two  older  than  myself,  I  thought,  and  the  loveliest 
creature  I  had  ever  seen.  She  had  large  blue  eyes  of  the  rare 
shade  called  violet,  a  little  round  perhaps,  but  the  long  lashes 
did  something  to  rectify  that  fault;  and  a  delicate  nose — 
turned  up  a  little  of  course,  else  at  her  age  she  could  not  have 
been  so  pretty.  Her  mouth  was  well  curved,  expressing  a  full 
share  of  Paley's  happiness ;  her  chin  was  something  large  and 
projecting,  but  the  lines  were  fine.  Her  hair  was  light  brown, 
but  dark  for  her  eyes,  and  her  complexion  would  have  been  en- 
chanting to  any  one  fond  of  the  "sweet  mixture,  red  and 
white."  Her  figure  was  that  of  a  girl  of  thirteen,  undeter- 
mined— ^but  therein  I  was  not  critical.  "  An  exceeding  fail 
forehead,"  to  quote  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  plump,  white,  dim- 
ple-knuckled hands  complete  the  picture  sufficiently  for  the 
present.  Indeed  it  would  have  been  better  to  say  only  that  I 
was  taken  with  her,  and  then  the  reader  might  fancy  her  such 
as  he  would  have  been  taken  with  himself.  But  I  was  not 
fascinated.  It  was  only  that  I  was  a  boy  and  she  was  a  girl, 
and  there  being  no  element  of  decided  repulsion,  I  felt  kindly 
disposed  towards  her. 

Mrs.  Wilson  turned  to  me. 

"  Well,  Master  Cumbermede,  you  see  I  am  able  to  give  you 
more  than  I  promised." 

"  Yes,"  I  returned ;  you  promised  to  show  me  the  old 
house ." 

"  And  here,"  she  interposed,  "  I  show  you  a  young  lady  as 
well." 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  I  said  simply.  But  I  had  a  feeling 
that  Mrs.  Wilson  was  not  absolutely  well  pleased. 

I  was  rather  shy  of  Miss  Clara — not  that  I  was  afraid  of 
her,  but  that  I  did  not  exactly  know  what  was  expected  of 
me,  and  Mrs.  Wilson  gave  us  no  further  introduction  to  each 
other.  I  w^as  not  so  shy,  how^ever,  as  not  to  wish  Mrs.  Wilson 
would  leave  us  together,  for  then,  I  thought,  we  should  get  on 
well  enough ;  but  such  was  not  her  intent.  Desirous  of  being 
agreeable^  however — as  far  as  I  knew  how,  and  remembering 


84  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

that  Mrs.  Wilson  had  given  me  the  choice  before,  I  said  to 
her — 

"  Mightn't  we  go  and  look  at  the  deer,  Mrs.  Wilson  ?" 

"  You  had  better  not,"  she  answered.  "  They  are  rather  ill- 
tempered  just  now.  They  might  run  at  you.  I  heard  them 
fighting  last  night,  and  knocking  their  horns  together  dread- 
fully." 

"  Then  we'd  better  not,"  said  Clara.  "  They  frightened  me 
very  much  yesterday." 

We  were  following  Mrs.  Wilson  from  the  room.  As  we 
passed  the  hall-door  we  peeped  in. 

"  Do  you  like  such  great  high  places?"  asked  Clara. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  I  answered.  "  I  like  great  high  places.  It 
makes  you  gasp  somehow." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  gasping  ?  Does  it  do  you  good  ? "  she 
asked,  with  a  mock  simplicity  which  might  be  humor  or  some- 
thing not  so  pleasant. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  does,"  I  answered.     "  It  pleases  me." 

"  I  don't  like  it.  I  like  a  quiet  snug  place  like  the  library 
— not  a  great  wide  place  like  this,  that  looks  as  if  it  had  swal- 
lowed you  and  didn't  know  it." 

"  What  a  clever  creature  she  is !"  I  thought.  We  turned 
away  and  followed  Mrs.  Wilson  again. 

I  had  expected  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  with  her,  but 
the  moment  we  reached  her  apartment,  she  got  out  a  bottle  of 
her  home-made  wine  and  some  cake,  saying  it  was  time  for  me 
to  go  home.  I  was  much  disappointed — the  more  that  the 
pretty  Clara  remained  behind ;  but  what  could  I  do  ?  I 
strolled  back  to  Aldwick  with  my  head  fuller  than  ever  of 
fancies,  new  and  old.  But  Mrs.  Wilson  had  said  nothing  of 
going  to  see  her  again,  and  without  an  invitation  I  could  not 
venture  to  revisit  the  Hall. 

In  pondering  over  the  events  of  the  day,  I  gave  the  man  I 
had  met  in  the  woods  a  full  share  in  my  meditations. 


A  TALK  WITH   MY  UNCLE.  85 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  TALK   WITH   MY  UNCLE. 

When  I  returned  home  for  the  Christmas  holidays  I  told 
my  uncle,  amongst  other  thmgs,  all  that  I  have  just  recorded; 
for  although  the  affair  seemed  far  away  from  me  now,  I  felt 
that  he  ought  to  know  it.  He  was  greatly  pleased  with  my 
behaviour  in  regard  to  the  apple.  He  did  not  identify  the 
place,  however,  until  he  heard  the  name  of  the  housekeeper : 
then  I  saw  a  cloud  pass  over  his  face.  It  grew  deeper  when  I 
told  him  of  my  second  visit,  especially  while  I  described  th^ 
man  I  had  met  in  the  wood. 

"  I  have  a  strange  fancy  about  him,  uncle,"  I  said.  "  I 
think  he  must  be  the  same  man  that  came  here  one  very  stormy 
night — long  ago — and  wanted  to  take  me  away." 

"  Who  told  you  of  that  ?"  asked  my  uncle,  startled. 

I  explained  that  I  had  been  a  listener. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  listened." 

"I  know  that  now — but  I  did  not  know  then.  I  woke 
frightened,  and  heard  the  voices." 

"  What  makes  you  think  it  was  the  same  man  ?" 

"  I  can't  be  sure,  you  know  But  as  often  as  I  think  of  the 
man  I  met  in  the  wood,  the  recollection  of  that  night  comes 
back  to  me." 

"  I  dare  say.     What  was  he  like?" 

I  described  him  as  well  as  I  could. 

"Yes,"  said  my  uncle,  "I  dare  say.  He  is  a  dangerous 
man." 

"  What  did  he  want  with  me?" 

"  He  wanted  to  have  something  to  do  with  your  education. 
He  is  an  old  friend — acquaintance,  I  ought  to  say — of  your 
father's.  I  should  be  sorry  you  had  any  intercourse  with 
him.    He  is  a  very  worldly  kind  of  man.     He  believes  in 


86  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

money  and  rank,  and  getting  on.     He  believes  in  nothing  else 
that  I  know." 

"  Then  I  am  sure  I  shouldn't  like  him,"  I  said. 

•'  I  am  pretty  sure  you  wouldn't,"  returned  my  uncle. 

I  had  never  before  heard  him  speak  so  severely  of  any  one. 
But  from  this  time  he  began  to  talk  to  me  more  as  if  I  had 
been  a  grown  man.  There  was  a  simplicity  in  his  way  of  look- 
ing at  things,  however,  which  made  him  quite  intelligible  to  a 
boy  as  yet  uncorrupted  by  false  aims  or  judgments.  He  took 
me  about  with  him  constantly,  and  I  began  to  see  him  as  he 
was,  and  to  honor  and  love  him  more  than  ever. 

Christmas-day,  this  year,  fell  on  ^  Sunday.  It  was  a  model 
Christmas-day.  My  uncle  and  I  walked  to  church  in  the 
morning.  When  we  started,  the  grass  was  shining  with  frost, 
and  the  air  was  cold ;  a  fog  hung  about  the  horizon,  and  the 
sun  shone  through  it  with  red,  rayless  countenance.  But  be- 
fore we  reached  the  church,  which  was  some  three  miles  from 
home,  the  fog  was  gone,  and  the  frost  had  taken  shelter  with 
the  shadows ;  the  sun  was  dazzling,  without  being  clear,  and 
the  golden  cock  on  the  spire  was  glittering  keen  in  the  move- 
less air. 

"What  do  they  put  a  cock  on  the  spire  for,  uncle?"  I 
asked. 

"  To  end  off  with  an  ornament,  perhaps,"  he  answered. 

"  I  thought  it  had  been  to  show  how  the  wind  blew." 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  great  things — I  mean 
the  spire,  not  the  cock — had  been  put  to  little  uses." 

"  But  why  should  it  be  a  cock,"  I  asked,  "  more  than  any 
other  bird  ?" 

"  Some  people — those  to  whom  the  church  is  chiefly  histori- 
cal— would  tell  you  it  is  the  cock  that  rebuked  St.  Peter. 
Whether  it  be  so  or  not,  I  think  a  better  reason  for  putting  it 
there  would  be  that  the  cock  is  the  first  creature  to  welcome 
the  light,  and  tell  people  that  it  is  coming.  Hence  it  is  a  sym- 
bol of  the  clergyman." 

"  But  our  clergyman  doesn't  wake  the  people,  uncle.  IVe 
seen  him  send  you  to  sleep  sometimes." 


A   TALK  WITH   MY  UNCLE.  .87 

My  uncle  laughed. 

"  I  dare  say,  there  are  some  dull  cocks,  too,"  he  answered. 

"  There's  one  at  the  farm,"  I  said,  "  which  goes  on  crowing 
every  now  and  then  all  night — in  his  sleep — Janet  says.  But 
it  never  wakes  till  all  the  rest  are  out  in  the  yard." 

My  uncle  laughed  again.  We  had  reached  the  church- 
yard :  and  by  the  time  we  had  visited  grannie's  grave — that 
was  the  only  one  I  thought  of  in  the  group  of  family  mounds — 
the  bells  had  ceased,  and  we  entered. 

I  at  least  did  not  sleep  this  morning ;  not,  however,  because 
of  the  anti-somnolence  of  the  clergyman  but  that,  in  a  pew 
not  far  off  from  me,  sat  Clara.  I  could  see  her  as  often  as  I 
pleased  to  turn  ray  head  half-way  round.  Church  is  a  very 
favorable  place  for  falling  in  love.  It  is  all  very  well  for  the 
older  people  to  shake  their  heads  and  say  you  ought  to  be 
minding  the  service — that  does  not  affect  the  fact  stated — espe- 
cially when  the  clergyman  is  of  the  half-awake  order,  who  take 
to  the  church  as  a  gentleman -like  profession.  Having  to  sit 
so  still,  with  the  pretty  face  so  near,  with  no  obligation  to  pay 
it  attention,  but  with  perfect  liberty  to  look  at  it,  a  boy  in  the 
habit  of  inventing  stories  could  hardly  help  fancying  himself 
in  love  with  it.  Whether  she  saw  me  or  not,  I  cannot  tell. 
Although  she  passed  me  close  as  we  came  out,  she  did  not  look 
my  way,  and  I  had  not  the  hardihood  to  address  her. 

As  we  were  walking  home,  my  uncle  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  would  like  to  be  an  honorable  man,  wouldn't  you, 
Willie?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  that  I  should,  uncle." 

"  Could  you  keep  a  secret  now?" 

"  Yes,  uncle." 

"  But  there  are  two  ways  of  keeping  a  secret." 

"  I  don't  know  more  than  one." 

"Wiat'sthat?" 

"  Not  to  tell  it." 

"  Never  to  show  that  you  knew  it,  would  be  better  still." 

"Yes,  it  would-" 

"  But,  suppose  a  thing : — suppose  you  knew^  that  there  was 


83  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

a  secret ;  suppose  you  wanted  very  much  to  find  it  out,  and 
yet  would  not  try  to  find  it  out :  wouldn't  that  be  another  way 
of  keeping  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  would.  If  I  knew  there  was  a  secret,  I  should  like 
to  find  it  out." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  try  you.  There  is  a  secret.  I  know 
it ;  you  do  not.  You  have  a  right  to  know  it  some  day,  but 
not  yet.  I  mean  to  tell  it  you,  but  I  want  you  to  learn  a  great 
deal  first.  I  want  to  keep  the  secret  from  hurting  you.  Just 
as  you  would  keep  things  from  a  baby  which  would  hurt  him, 
I  have  kept  some  things  from  you." 

"  Is  the  sword  one  of  them,  uncle  ?"  I  asked. 

"You  could  not  do  anything  with  the  secret  if  you  did 
know  it,"  my  uncle  went  on,  without  heeding  my  question ; 
"  but  there  may  be  designing  people  who  would  make  a  tool 
of  you  for  their  own  ends.  It  is  far  better  you  should  be  ig- 
norant. Now,  will  you  keep  my  secret  ? — or,  in  other  words, 
will  you  trust  me  ?" 

I  felt  a  little  frightened.  My  imagination  was  at  work  on 
the  formless  thing.  But  I  was  chiefly  afraid  of  the  promise — 
lest  I  should  anyway  break  it. 

"  I  will  try  to  keep  the  secret — keep  it  from  myself,  that  is — 
ain't  it,  uncle  ?" 

"  Yes.     That  is  just  what  I  mean." 

*'  But  how  long  will  it  be  for,  uncle  ?" 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure.  It  will  depend  on  how  wise  and 
sensible  you  grow.  Some  boys  are  men  at  eighteen — some  not 
at  forty.  The  more  reasonable  and  well-behaved  you  are,  the 
sooner  shall  I  feel  at  liberty  to  tell  it  you." 

He  ceased,  and  I  remained  silent.  T  was  not  astonished. 
The  vague  news  fell  in  with  all  my  fancies.  The  possibility 
of  something  pleasant,  nay,  even  wonderful  and  romantic,  of 
course  suggested  itself,  and  the  hope  which  thence  gilded  the 
delay  tended  to  reconcile  me  to  my  ignorance. 

"  I  think  it  better  you  should  not  go  back  to  Mr.  Elder's, 
Willie,"  said  my  uncle. 

I  was  stunned  at  the  words.     Where  could  a  place  be  found 


A   TALK  WITH   MY  UNCLE.  S9 

to  compare  for  blessedness  with  Mr.  Elder's  school  ?  Not  even 
the  great  Hall,  with  its  acres  of  rooms  and  its  age-long  history, 
could  rival  it. 

Some  moments  passed  before  I  could  utter  a  faltering 
"Why?" 

"That  is  part  of  my  secret,  Willie,"  answered  my  uncle. 
"  I  know  it  will  be  a  disappointment  to  you,  for  you  have  been 
very  happy  with  Mr.  Elder." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  I  answered.  It  was  all  I  could  say,  for  the 
tears  were  rolling  down  my  cheeks,  and  there  was  a  great  lump 
in  my  throat. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  indeed  to  give  you  pain,  Willie,"  he  said, 
kindly. 

"  It's  not  my  blame,  is  it,  uncle  ?"  I  sobbed. 

"Not  in  the  least,  my  boy." 

"  Oh !  then,  I  don't  mind  it  so  much." 

"There's  a  brave  boy!  Now  the  question  is,  what  to  do 
with  you." 

" Can't  I  stop  at  home,  then?" 

"  No,  that  won't  do  either,  Willie.  I  must  have  you  taught, 
and  I  haven't  time  to  teach  you  myself.  Neither  am  I  a 
scholar  enough  for  it  now ;  my  learning  has  got  rusty.  I  know 
your  father  would  have  wished  to  send  you  to  College,  and 
although  I  do  not  very  well  see  how  I  can  manage  it,  I  must 
do  the  best  I  can.  I'm  not  a  rich  man,  you  see,  Willie, 
though  I  have  a  little  laid  by.  I  never  could  do  much  at 
making  money,  and  I  must  not  leave  your  aunt  unprovided 
for." 

"  No,  uncle.  Besides,  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  work  for 
myself  and  you  too." 

"  Not  for  a  long  time  if  you  go  to  College,  Willie.  But  we 
need  not  talk  about  that  yet." 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  my  uncle's  room.  He  was  sitting 
by  his  fire  reading  the  New  Testament. 

"  Please,  uncle,"  I  said,  "  will  you  tell  me  something  about 
my  father  and  mother?" 

"With    pleasure,   my   boy,"    he    answered,   and    after    a 


\^ 


90  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

moment's  thought  began  to  give  me  a  sketch  of  my  father's 
lite,  with  as  many  touches  of  the  man  himself  as  he  could  at 
the  moment  recall.  I  will  not  detain  my  reader  with  the  nar- 
rative. It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  my  father  was  a  simple 
honorable  man,  without  much  education,  but  a  great  lover  of 
plain  books.  His  health  had  always  been  delicate;  and  before 
he  died  he  had  been  so  long  an  invalid  that  my  mother's 
health  had  given  way  in  nursing  him,  so  that  she  very  soon 
followed  him.  As  his  narrative  closed  my  uncle  said :  "  Now 
Willie,  you  see,  with  a  good  man  like  that  for  your  father, 
you  are  bound  to  be  good  and  honorable.  -  .Never  mind 
whether  people  praise  you  or  not ;  you  do  what  you  ought  to 
do.  And  don't  be  always  thinking  of  your  rights.  There  are 
people  who  consider  themselves  very  grand  because  they  can't 
bear  to  be  interfered  with.  They  think  themselves  lovers  of 
justice,  when  it  is  only  justice  to  themselves  they  care  about. 
The  true  lover  of  justice  is  one  who  would  rather  die  a  slave 
than  interfere  with  the  rights  of  others.  To  wrong  any  one  is 
the  most  terrible  thing  in  the  world.  Injustice  to  you  is  not 
an  awful  thing  like  injustice  in  you.  I  should  like  to  see  you 
a  great  man,  Willie.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  by  a  great 
man?" 

"  Something  else  than  I  know,  I'm  afraid,  uncle,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  A  great  man  is  one  who  will  try  to  do  right  against  the 
devil  himself;  one  who  will  not  do  wrong  to  please  anybody 
or  to  save  his  life." 

I  listened,  but  I  thought  with  myself  a  man  might  do  all 
that,  and  be  no  great  man.  I  would  do  something  better — 
some  fine  deed  or  other — I  did  not  know  what  now,  but  I 
should  find  out  by  and  by.  My  uncle  was  too  easily  pleased ; 
I  should  demand  more  of  a  great  man.  Not  so  did  the 
knights  of  old  gain  their  renown.     I  was  silent. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  take  ray  opinions  as  yours,  you  know, 
Willie,"  my  uncle  resumed.  "  But  I  want  you  to  remember 
what  my  opinion  is." 

As  he  spoke,  he  went  to  a  drawer  in  the  room,  and  brought 


A   TALK   WITH   MY   UNCLE.  91 

out  something  which  he  put  in  my  hands.     I  could  hardly 
believe  my  eyes.     It  was  the  watch  grannie  had  given  me. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  is  your  father's  watch.  Let  it  keep  you 
in  mind  that  to  be  good  is  to  be  great." 

"O  thank  you,  uncle!"  I  said,  heeding  only  my  recovered 
treasure. 

"  But  didn't  it  belong  to  somebody  before  my  father?  Gran- 
nie gave  it  me  as  if  it  had  been  hers." 

"Your  grandfather  gave  it  to  your  father;  but  when  he 
died,  your  great-grandmother  took  it.  Did  she  tell  you  any- 
thing about  it?" 

"  Nothing  particular.     She  said  it  was  her  husband's." 

"  So  it  was,  I  believe." 

"  She  used  to  call  him  my  father." 

"Ah,  you  remember  that!" 

"  I've  had  so  much  time  to  think  about  things,  uncle !" 

"  Yes.  Well  —I  hope  you  will  think  more  about  things 
yet." 

"  Yes,  uncle.  But  there's  something  else  I  should  like  to 
ask  you  about." 

"What's  that?" 

"  The  old  sword." 

My  uncle  smiled,  and  rose  again,  saying: 

"  Ah  !  I  thought  as  much.  Is  that  anything  like  it  ?"  he 
added,  bringing  it  from  the  bottom  of  a  cupboard. 

I  took  it  from  his  hands  with  awe.  It  was  the  same.  If  I 
could  have  mistaken  the  hilt,  I  could  not  mistake  the  split 
sheath. 

"  Oh,  uncle  !"  I  exclaimed,  breathless  with  delight. 

"That's  it — isn't  it?"  he  said,  enjoying  my  enjoyment. 

"  Yes,  that  it  is !  Now  tell  me  all  about  it,  please." 

"  Indeed  I  can  tell  you  very  little.  Some  ancestor  of  ours 
fought  with  it  somewhere.  There  was  a  story  about  it,  but  I 
have  forgot  it.     You  may  have  it  if  you  like." 

"  No,  uncle  !  May  I  ?     To  take  away  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  think  you  are  old  enough  now  not  to  do  any  mis- 
chief with  it." 


92  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

I  do  not  believe  there  was  a  happier  boy  in  England  that 
night.  I  did  not  mind  where  I  went  now.  I  thought  I  could 
even  bear  to  bid  Mrs.  Elder  farewell.  Whether  therefore 
possession  had  done  me  good,  I  leave  my  reader  to  judge. 
But  happily  for  our  blessedness,  the  joy  of  possession  soon 
palls,  and  not  many  days  had  gone  by  before  I  found  I  had  a 
Heart  yet.     Strange  to  say,  it  was  my  aunt  who  touched  it. 

I  do  not  yet  know  all  the  reasons  which  brought  my  uncle 
to  the  resolution  of  sending  me  abroad :  it  was  certainly  an 
unusual  mode  of  preparing  one  for  the  university ;  but  the 
next  day  he  disclosed  the  plan  to  me.  I  was  pleased  with  the 
notion.  But  my  aunt's  apron  went  up  to  her  eyes.  It  was  a 
very  hard  apron,  and  I  pitied  those  eyes  although  they  were 
fierce. 

"Oh,  auntie!"  I  said,  "what  are  you  crying  for?  Don't 
you  like  me  to  go  ?" 

"  It's  too  far  off,  child.  How  am  I  to  get  to  you  if  you 
should  be  taken  ill  ?" 

Moved  both  by  my  own  pleasure  and  her  grief,  I  got  up 
and  threw  my  arms  round  her  neck.  I  had  never  done  so 
before.     She  returned  my  embrace  and  wept  freely. 

As  it  was  not  a  fit  season  for  traveling,  and  as  my  uncle 
had  not  yet  learned  whither  it  would  be  well  to  send  me,  it 
was  after  all  resolved  that  I  should  return  to  Mr.  Elder's  for 
another  half-year.  This  gave  me  unspeakable  pleasure ;  and 
I  set  out  for  school  again  in  such  a  blissful  mood  as  must  be 
rare  in  the  experience  of  any  life. 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  93 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    HOUSE-STEWARD. 

My  uncle  had  had  the  watch  cleaned  and  repaired  for  me, 
so  that  notwithstanding  its  great  age,  it  was  yet  capable  of  a 
doubtfiil  sort  of  service.  Its  caprices  were  almost  human,  but 
they  never  impaired  the  credit  of  its  possession  in  the  eyes  of 
my  schoolfellows ;  rather  they  added  to  the  interest  of  the 
little  machine,  inasmuch  as  no  one  could  foretell  its  behaviour 
under  any  circumstances.  We  were  far  oftener  late  now, 
when  we  went  out  for  a  ramble.  Heretofore  we  had  used  our 
faculties  and  consulted  the  sky — now  we  trusted  to  the  watch, 
and  indeed  acted  as  if  it  could  regulate  the  time  to  our  con- 
venience, and  carry  us  home  afterwards.  We  regarded  it,  in 
respect  of  time,  very  much  as  some  people  regard  the  Bible  in 
respect  of  eternity.  And  the  consequences  were  similar.  We 
made  an  idol  of  it,  and  the  idol  played  us  the  usual  idol- 
pranks. 

But  I  think  the  possession  of  the  sword,  in  my  own  eyes  too 
a  far  grander  thing  than  the  watch,  raised  me  yet  higher  in 
the  regard  of  my  companions.  We  could  not  be  on  such  inti- 
mate terms  with  the  sword,  for  one  thing,  as  with  the  watch. 
It  was  in  more  senses  than  one  beyond  our  sphere — a  thing  to 
be  regarded  with  awe  and  reverence.  Mr.  Elder  had  most 
wisely  made  no  objection  to  my  having  it  in  our  bed-room  ; 
but  he  drove  two  nails  into  the  wall,  and  hung  it  high  above 
my  reach,  saying  the  time  had  not  come  for  my  handling  it. 
I  believe  the  good  man  respected  the  ancient  weapon,  and 
wished  to  preserve  it  from  such  usage  as  it  might  have  met 
with  from  boys.  It  was  the  more  a  constant  stimulus  to  my 
imagination,  and  I  believe  insensibly  to  my  moral  nature  as 
well,  connecting  me  in  a  kind  of  dim  consciousness  with  fore- 
gone ancestors  who  had,  I  took  it  for  granted,  done  well  on 
the  battle-field.     I  had  the  sense  of  an  inherited  character  to 


i)4  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

sustain  in  the  new  order  of  things.  But  there  was  more  in 
its  inllueuce  which  I  can  hardly  define — tlie  inheritance  of  it 
even  gave  birth  to  a  certain  sense  of  personal  dignity. 

Although  I  never  thought  of  visiting  Mold  warp  Hall  again 
without  an  invitation,  I  took  my  companions  more  than  once 
into  the  woods  which  lay  about  it ;  thus  far  I  used  the  right 
of  my  acquaintance  with  the  housekeeper.  One  day  in 
spring,  I  had  gone  with  them  to  the  old  narrow  bridge.  I 
was  particularly  fond  of  visiting  it.  We  lingered  a  long  time 
about  Queen  Elizabeth's  oak ;  and  by  climbing  up  on  each 
other's  shoulders,  and  so  gaining  some  stumps  of  vanished 
boughs,  had  succeeded  in  clambering,  one  after  another,  into 
•the  wilderness  of  its  branches,  where  the  young  buds  were 
now  pushing  away  the  withered  leaves  before  them,  as  the 
young  generations  of  men  push  the  older  into  the  grave. 
When  my  turn  came,  I  climbed  and  climbed  until  I  had 
reached  a  great  height  in  its  top.  Then  I  sat  down,  holding 
by'the  branch  over  my  head,  and  began  to  look  about  me. 
Below  was  an  entangled  net,  as  it  seemed — a  labyrinth  of 
boughs,  branches,  twigs,  and  shoots.  If  I  had  fallen  I  could 
hardly  have  reached  the  earth.  Through  this  environing 
mass  of  lines,  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  country  around — 
green  fields,  swelling  into  hills,  where  the  fresh  foliage  was 
bursting  from  the  trees  ;  and  below,  the  little  stream  ever  pur- 
suing its  busy  way,  by  a  devious  but  certain  path  to  its  un- 
known future.  Then  my  eyes  turned  to  the  tree-clad  ascent 
on  the  opposite  side :  through  the  topmost  of  its  trees  shone  a 
golden  spark,  a  glimmer  of  yellow  fire.  It  was  the  vane  on 
the  highest  tower  of  the  Hall.  A  great  desire  seized  me  to 
look  on  the  lordly  pile  once  more.  I  descended  in  haste,  and 
proposed  to  my  companions  that  we  should  climb  through  the 
woods,  and  have  a  peep  at  the  house.  The  eldest,  who  was  in 
a  measure  in  charge  of  us — his  name  was  Bardsley,  for  Fox 
was  gone — proposed  to  consult  my  watch  first.  Had  we  known 
that  the  faithless  thing  had  stopped  for  an  hour  and  a  half, 
and  then  resumed  its  onward  course  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, we  should  not  have  delayed  our  return.     As  it  was,  ofi* 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  95 

we  scampered  for  the  pack-horse  bridge,  which  we  left  behind 
as  only  after  many  frog-leaps  over  the  obstructing  stones  at 
the  ends.  Then  up  through  the  wood  we  went  like  wild  crea- 
tures, abstaining  however  from  all  shouting  and  mischief, 
aware  that  we  were  on  sujBferance  only.  At  length  we  stood 
on  the  verge  of  the  descent,  when,  to  our  surprise,  we  saw  the 
sun  getting  low  in  the  horizon.  Clouds  were  gathering  over- 
head, and  a  wailful  wind  made  one  moaning  sweep  through 
the  trees  behind  us  in  the  hollow.  The  sun  had  hidden  his 
shape  but  not  his  splendor  in  the  skirts  of  the  white  clouds 
which  were  closing  in  around  him.  Spring  as  it  was,  I 
thought  I  smelled  snow  in  the  air.  But  the  vane  which  had 
drawn  me  shone  brilliant  against  a  darkening  cloud,  like  a 
golden  bird  in  the  sky.  We  looked  at  each  other,  not  in  dis- 
may exactly,  but  with  a  common  feeling  that  the  elements 
were  gathering  against  us.  The  wise  way  would  of  course 
have  been  to  turn  at  once  and  make  for  home ;  but  the  watch 
had  to  be  considered.  Was  the  watch  right,  or  was  the  watch 
wrong  ?  Its  health  and  conduct  were  of  the  greatest  interest 
to  the  common  weal.  That  question  must  be  answered.  We 
looked  from  the  watch  to  the  sun,  and  back  from  the  sun  to 
the  watch.  Steady  to  all  appearance  as  the  descending  sun 
itself,  the  hands  were  trotting  and  crawling  along  their 
appointed  way,  with  a  look  of  unconscious  innocence,  in  the 
midst  of  their  diamond  coronet.  I  volunteered  to  settle  the 
question:  I  would  run  to  the  Hall,  ring  the  bell,  and  ask 
leave  to  go  as  far  into  the  court  as  to  see  the  clock  on  the  cen- 
tral tower.  The  proposition  was  applauded.  I  ran,  rang,  and 
being  recognized  by  the  portress,  was  at  once  admitted.  In  a 
moment  I  had  satisfied  myself  of  the  treachery  of  my  bosom- 
friend,  and  was  turning  to  leave  the  court,  when  a  lattice 
opened,  and  I  heard  a  voice  calling  my  name.  It  was  Mrs. 
Wilson's.     She  beckoned  |ne.     I  went  up  under  the  window. 

"Why  don't  you  come  and  see  me.  Master  Cumbermede?" 
she  said. 

"You  didn't  ask  me,  Mrs.  Wilson.    I  should  have  liked  to 
come  very  much." 


96  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"Come  iu,  then,  and  have  tea  with  me  now." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  answered.  "  My  schoolfellows  are  wait- 
ing for  me,  and  we  are  too  late  ali*eady.  I  only  came  to  see 
the  clock." 

"  Well,  you  must  come  soon,  then." 

"I  will,  Mrs.  Wilson.  Good-night,"  I  answered,  and  away 
I  ran,  opened  the  wicket  for  myself,  set  my  foot  in  the  deep 
shoe-mould,  then  rushed  down  the  rough  steps  and  across  the 
grass  to  mj  companions. 

AYlien  they  heard  what  time  it  was,  they  turned  without  a 
word,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  we  were  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill  and  over  the  bridge.  The  wood  followed  us  with  a  moan 
which  was  gathering  to  a  roar.  Down  in  the  meadow  it  was 
growing  dark.  Before  we  reached  the  lodge  it  had  begun  to 
rain,  and  the  wind,  when  we  got  upon  the  road,  was  blowing  a 
gale.  We  were  seven  miles  from  home.  Happily  the  wind 
was  in  our  back,  and,  wet  to  the  skin,  but  not  so  weary  because 
of  the  aid  of  the  wind,  we  at  length  reached  Aid  wick.  The 
sole  punishment  we  had  for  being  so  late — and  that  was  more 
a  precaution  than  punishment — was  that  we  had  to  go  to  bed 
immediately  after  a  hurried  tea.  To  face  and  fight  the  ele- 
ments is,  however,  an  invaluable  lesson  in  childhood,  and  I 
do  not  think  those  parents  do  well  who  are  over  careful  to 
preserve  all  their  children  from  all  inclemencies  of  weather  or 
season. 

When  the  next  holiday  drew  near,  I  once  more  requested 
and  obtained  permission  to  visit  Moldwarp  Hall.  I  am  now 
puzzled  to  understand  why  my  uncle  had  not  interdicted  it, 
but  certainly  he  had  laid  no  injunctions  upon  me  in  regard 
thereto.  Possibly  he  had  communicated  with  Mrs,  Wilson :  I 
do  not  know.  If  he  had  requested  Mr.  Elder  to  prevent  me, 
I  could  not  have  gone.  So  far,  however,  must  this  have  been 
from  being  the  case,  that  on  the  eve  of  the  holiday,  Mr.  Elder 
said  to  me : 

"If  Mrs.  Wilson  should  ask  you  to  stay  all  night,  you 
may." 

I  suspect  he  knew  more  about  some  things  than  I  did.    The 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  97 

notion  of  staying  all  night  seemed  to  me,  however,  out  of  the 
question.  Mrs.  Wilson  could  not  be  expected  to  entertain  me 
to  that  extent.  I  fancy,  though,  that  she  had  written  to  make 
the  request.  My  schoolfellows  accompanied  me  as  far  as  the 
bridge,  and  there  left  me.  Mrs.  Wilson  received  me  with 
notable  warmth,  and  did  propose  that  I  should  stay  all  night, 
to  which  I  gladly  agreed,  more,  it  must  be  confessed,  from  the 
attraction  of  the  old  house  than  the  love  I  bore  to  Mrs.  Wil- 
son. 

"  But  what  is  that  you  are  carrying  ?"  she  asked. 

It  was  my  sword.     This  requires  a  little  explanation. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  on  the  eve  of  a  second  visit,  as  I 
hoped,  to  the  armory,  I  should,  on  going  up  to  bed,  lift  my 
eyes   with    longing   look   to   my   own   sword.      The   thought 
followed — what  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  compare  it  with  the 
other  swords  in  the  armory.     If  I  could  only  get  it  down  and 
smuggle  it  away  Avith  me!     It  was  my  own.     I  believed  Mr. 
Elder  would  not  approve  of  this ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  had 
never  told  me  not  to  take  it  down :  he  had  only  hung  it  too 
high  for  any  of  us  to  reach  it — almost  close  to  the  ceiling  in 
fact.     But  a  want  of  enterprise  was  not  then  a  fault  of  mine, 
and  the  temptation  was  great.     So  when  my  chum  was  asleep, 
I  rose,  and,  by  the  remnant  of  a  fading  moon,  got  together  the 
furniture — no  easy  undertaking,  when  the  least  noise  would 
have  betrayed  me.     Fortunately  there  was  a  chest  of  drawers 
not  far  from  under  the  object  of  my  ambition,  and  I  managed 
by  lialf  inches  to  move  it  the  few  feet  necessary.     On  the  top 
of  this  I  hoisted  the  small  dressing-table,  which,  being  only  of 
deal,  was  very  light.     The  chest  of  drawers  was  large  enough 
to  hold  my  small  box  beside  the  table.     I  got  on  the  drawers 
by  means  of  a  chair,  then  by  means  of  the  box  I  got  on  the 
table,  and  so  succeeded  in  getting  down  the  sword.     Having 
replaced  the  furniture,  I  laid  the  weapon  under  my  bolster, 
and  was  soon  fast  asleep.     The  moment  I  woke  I  got  up,  and 
before  the  house  was  stirring  had  deposited  the  sword  in  an 
outbuilding  whence  I  could  easily  get  it  off  the  premises.     Of 
course  my  companions  knew,  and  I  told  them  all  my  designs. 
7 


98  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Mobcrly  hinted  that  I  ought  to  have  asked  Mr.  Elder,  but  his 
was  the  sole  remark  in  that  direction. 

"  It  is  my  sword,  Mrs.  Wilson,"  I  answered. 

"  How  do  you  come  to  have  a  sword  ?"  she  asked.  "  It  is 
hardly  a  fit  plaything  for  you." 

I  told  her  how  it  had  been  in  the  house  since  long  before  I 
was  born,  and  that  I  had  brought  it  to  compare  with  some  of 
the  swords  in  the  armory. 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered.  "  I  dare  say  we  can  manage 
it ;  but  when  Mr.  Close  is  at  home,  it  is  not  very  easy  to  get 
into  the  armory.  He's  so  jealous  of  any  one  touching  his 
swords  and  guns !" 

"  ^Vho  is  Mr.  Close,  then  ?" 

"  Mr.  Close  is  the  house-steward." 

"  But  they're  not  his  then,  are  they  ?" 

"  It's  quite  enough  that  he  thinks  so.  He  has  a  fancy  for 
that  sort  of  thing.  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  anything  so  precious 
in  the  rusty  old  rubbish." 

I  suspected  that,  as  the  saying  is,  there  was  no  love  lost  be- 
tween Mrs.  Wilson  and  Mr.  Close.  I  learned  afterwards  that 
he  had  been  chaplain  to  a  regiment  of  foot,  which,  according 
to  rumor,  he  had  had  to  leave  for  some  misconduct.  This  was 
in  the  time  of  the  previous  owner  of  Moldwarp  Hall,  and  no- 
body now  knew  the  circumstances  under  which  he  had  become 
house-steward—  a  position  in  which  Sir  Giles,  when  he  came  to 
the  property,  had  retained  his  services. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  comj^any,  and  a  dance,  this  eve- 
ning," continued  Mrs.  Wilson.  "  I  hardly  know  what  to  do 
with  you,  my  hands  are  so  full." 

This  was  not  very  consistent  with  her  inviting  me  to  stay  all 
night,  and  confirms  my  suspicion  that  she  had  made  a  request 
of  that  purport  of  Mr.  Elder,  for  otherwise,  surely,  she  w^ould 
have  sent  me  home. 

"  Oh !  never  mind  me,  Mrs.  Wilson,"  I  said.  "  If  you  will 
let  me  wander  about  the  place,  I  shall  be  perfectly  comfortable. " 

"  Yes ;  but  you  might  get  in  the  way  of  the  family,  or  the 
visitors,"  she  said. 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  99 

"  I'll  take  good  care  of  that,"  I  returned.  "  Surely  there  is 
room  in  this  huge  place  without  running  against  any  one." 

"  There  ought  to  be,"  she  answered. 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  she  resumed, 

"  We  shall  have  a  good  many  of  them  staying  all  night, 
but  there  will  be  room  for  you,  I  dare  say.  What  would  you 
like  to  do  with  yourself  till  they  begin  to  come  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  the  library,"  I  answered,  thinking, 
I  confess,  of  the  adjacent  armory  as  well.  "  Should  I  be  in 
the  way  there  ?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  you  would,"  she  replied,  thoughtfully. 
"  It's  not  often  any  one  goes  there." 

"  Who  takes  charge  of  the  books  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh  !  books  don't  w^ant  much  taking  care  of,"  she  replied. 
"  I  have  thought  of  having  them  down  and  dusting  the  place 
out,  but  it  would  be  such  a  job !  and  the  dust  don't  signify 
upon  old  books.  They  ain't  of  much  count  in  this  house. 
Nobody  heeds  them." 

"  I  wish  Sir  Giles  would  let  me  come  and  put  them  in  order 
in  the  holidays,"  I  said,  little  knowing  how  altogether  unfit  I 
yet  was  for  such  an  undertaking. 

"  Ah,  well !  we'll  see.     Who  knows  ?" 

"  You  don't  think  he  would !"  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he  might.  But  I  thought  you 
were  going  abroad  soon.'' 

I  had  not  said  anything  to  her  on  the  subject.  I  had  never 
had  an  opportunity. 

"  Who  told  you  that,  Mrs.  Wilson?" 

"  Never  you  mind.  A  little  bird.  Now  you  had  better  go 
to  the  library.  I  dare  say  you  won't  hurt  anything,  for  Sir 
Giles,  although  he  never  looks  at  the  books,  would  be  dread- 
fully angry  if  he  thought  anything  were  happening  to  them." 

"  I'll  take  as  good  care  of  them  as  if  they  were  my  uncle's. 
He  used  to  let  me  handle  his  as  much  as  I  liked.  I  used  to 
mend  them  up  for  him.  al'm  quite  accustomed  to  books,  I  as- 
sure you,  Mrs.  Wilson." 

"  Come  then ;  I  will  show  you  the  way,"  she  said. 


100  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  think  I  know  the  way,"  I  answered.  For  I  had  pon- 
dered so  much  over  the  place,  and  had,  I  presume,  filled  so 
many  gaps  of  recollection  with  creations  of  fancy,  that  I  quite 
believed  I  knew  my  way  all  about  the  house. 

"  We  shall  see,"  she  returned  with  a  smile.  "  I  will  take 
you  the  nearest  way,  and  you  shall  tell  me  on  your  honor  if 
you  remember  it." 

She  led  the  way,  and  I  followed.  Passing  down  the  stone 
stair  and  through  several  rooms,  mostly  plain  bed-rooms,  we 
arrived  at  a  wooden  staircase  of  which  there  were  few  in  the 
place.  We  ascended  a  little  way,  crossed  one  or  two  rooms 
more,  came  out  on  a  small  gallery  open  to  the  air,  a  sort  of 
covered  bridge  across  a  gulf  in  the  building,  re-entered,  and 
after  crossing  other  rooms,  tapestried,  and  to  my  eyes  richly 
furnished,  arrived  at  the  first  of  those  occupied  by  the  library. 

"  Now  did  you  know  the  way,  Wilfrid  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  answered.  "  I  cannot  think  how  I 
could  have  forgotten  it  so  entirely.     I  am  ashamed  of  myself" 

"  You  have  no  occasion,"  she  returned.  "  You  never  went 
that  way  at  all." 

"  Oh,  dear  me !"  I  said ;  "  what  a  place  it  is !  I  might  lose 
myself  in  it  for  a  w^eek." 

"  You  would  come  out  somewhere,  if  you  went  on  long 
enough,  I  dare  say.  But  you  must  not  leave  the  library  till  I 
come  and  fetch  you.    You  will  want  some  dinner  before  long." 

"  What  time  do  you  dine  ?"  I  asked,  putting  my  hand  to 
my  watch-pocket 

"  Ah  !  you've  got  a  watch — have  you  ?  But  indeed  on  a  day 
like  this,  I  dine  when  I  can.  You  needn't  fear.  I  will  take 
care  of  you." 

"  Mayn't  I  go  into  the  armory  ?" 

"  If  you  don't  mind  the  risk  of  meeting  Mr.  Close.  But 
he's  not  likely  to  be  there  to-day." 

She  left  me  w^th  fresh  injunctions  not  to  stir  till  she  came 
for  me.  But  I  now  felt  the  place  to  b*  so  like  a  rabbit-warren, 
that  I  dared  not  leave  the  library,  if  not  for  the  fear  of  being 
lost,  then  for  the  fear  of  intruding  upon  some  of  the  family.  I 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  101 

soon  nestled  in  a  corner,  with  books  behind,  'bo'O'is  b-^'fcre,  and' 
books  all  around  me.  After  trying  seveipd  spots,  like  a  iai/io>: 
searching  for  live  lodes,  and  finding  nothing  ^i-rifcrouS  to  my 
limited  capacities  and  tastes,  I  had  at  length  struck  upon  a 
rich  vein,  had  instantly  dropped  on  the  floor,  and,  with  my 
back  against  the  shelves,  was  now  immersed  in  "  The  Seven 
Champions  of  Christendom."  As  I  read,  a  ray  of  light  which 
had  been  creeping  along  the  shelves  behind  me,  leaped  upon 
my  page.  I  looked  up.  I  had  not  yet  seen  the  room  so  light. 
Nor  had  I  perceived  before  in  what  confusion  and  with  what 
disrespect  the  books  were  heaped  upon  the  shelves.  A  dim 
feeling  awoke  in  me  that  to  restore  such  a  world  to  order 
would  be  like  a  work  of  creation ;  but  I  sunk  again  forthw^ith 
in  the  delights  of  a  feast  provided  for  an  imagination  which 
had  in  general  to  feed  itself.  I  had  here  all  the  delight  of  in- 
vention without  any  of  its  effort. 

At  length  I  became  aware  of  some  weariness.  The  sun- 
beam had  vanished,  not  only  from  the  page,  but  from  the 
room.  I  began  to  stretch  my  arms.  As  the  tension  of  their 
muscles  relaxed,  my  hand  fell  upon  the  sword  which  I  had 
carried  with  me  and  laid  on  the  floor  by  my  side.  It  awoke 
another  mental  nerve.     I  would  go  and  see  the  armory. 

I  arose,  and  wandered  slowly  through  room  after  room  of 
the  library,  dragging  my  sword  after  me.  When  I  reached 
the  last,  there,  in  the  corner  next  the  outer  wall  of  the  house, 
rose  the  three  stone  steps,  leading  to  the  little  door  that  com- 
municated with  the  treasury  of  ancient  strife.  I  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  irresolute  for  a  moment,  fearful  lest  my  black 
man,  Mr.  Close,  should  be  within,  polishing  his  weapons  per- 
haps, and  fearful  in  his  wrath.  I  ascended  the  steps,  listened 
at  the  door,  heard  nothing,  lifted  the  old,  quaintly-formed 
latch,  peeped  in,  and  entered.  There  was  the  whole  collec- 
tion, abandoned  to  my  eager  gaze  and  eager  hands !  How 
long  I  stood,  taking  down  weapon  after  weapon,  examining 
each  like  an  old  book,  speculating  upon  modes  of  use,  and  in- 
tention of  varieties  in  form,  poring  over  adornment  and  mount- 
ing, I  cannot  tell.     Historically  the  whole  was  a  sealed  book; 


102  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

individ'iillly.  1  .made  a  thorough  acquaiutance  with  not  a  few, 
iK)th"g.-tliG  differences  and  resemblances  between  them  and  my 
own,  and  iiistead<of  losing  conceit  of  the  latter,  finding  more 
and  more  reasons  for  holding  it  dear  and  honorable.  I  was 
poising  in  one  hand,  with  the  blade  upright  in  the  air — for 
otherwise  I  could  scarcely  have  held  it  in  both— a  huge,  two- 
handed,  double-hilted  sword,  with  serrated  double  edge,  when 
I  heard  a  step  approaching,  and  before  I  had  well  replaced 
the  sword,  a  little  door  in  a  corner  which  I  had  scarcely  no- 
ticed— the  third  door  to  the  room — opened,  and  down  the  last 
steps  of  the  narrowest  of  winding  stairs,  a  little  man  in  black 
screwed  himself  into  the  armory.  I  was  startled  but  not  alto- 
gether frightened.  I  felt  myself  grasping  my  own  sword  some- 
what nervously  in  my  left  hand,  as  I  abandoned  the  great  one, 
and  let  it  fall  back  with  a  clang  into  its  corner. 

"By  the  powers!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Close,  revealing  himself  an 
Irishman  at  once  in  the  surprise  of  my  presence,  "and  whom 
have  we  here?" — I  felt  my  voice  tremble  a  little  as  I  replied: 

"Mrs.  Wilson  allowed  me  to  come,  sir.  I  assure  you  I  have 
not  been  hurting  anything." 

"  Who's  to  tell  that  ?  Mrs.  Wilson  has  no  business  to  let 
any  one  come  here.  This  is  my  quarters.  There — you've  got 
one  in  your  hand  now!  You've  left  finger-marks  on  the  blade, 
Tl\  be  bound.     Give  it  me." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand.     I  drew  back. 

"This  one  is  mine,"  I  said. 

"  Ho,  ho,  young  gentleman!  So  you're  a  collector — are  you? 
Already,  too !  Nothing  like  beginning  in  time !  Let  me  look 
at  the  thing,  though." 

He  was  a  little  man,  as  I  have  said,  di-essed  in  black,  with  a 
frock  coat  and  a  deep  white  neckcloth.  His  face  would  have 
been  vulgar,  especially  as  his  nose  was  a  traitor  to  his  mouth, 
revealing  in  its  hue  the  proclivities  of  its  owner,  but  for  a  cer- 
tain look  of  the  connoisseur  which  went  far  to  redeem  it.  The 
hand  which  he  stretched  out  to  take  my  weapon  was  small  and 
delicate — like  a  woman's  indeed.  His  speech  was  that  of  a 
gentleman.     I  handed  him  the  sword  at  once. 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  103 

He  had  scarcely  glanced  at  it  when  a  strange  look  passed 
over  his  countenance.  He  tried  to  draw  it,  failed,  and  looking 
all  along  the  sheath,  saw  its  condition.  Then  his  eyes  flashed. 
He  turned  from  me  abruptly,  and  went  up  the  stair  he  had 
descended.  I  waited  anxiously  for  what  seemed  to  me  half  an 
hour:  I  dare  say  it  was  not  more  than  ten  minutes.  At  last  I 
heard  him  revolving  on  his  axis  down  the  corkscrew  staircase. 
He  entered  and  handed  me  my  sword,  saying — 

"There!  I  can't  get  it  out  of  the  sheath.  It's  in  a  horrid 
state  of  rust.     Where  did  you  fall  in  with  it?" 

I  told  him  all  I  knew  about  it.  If  he  did  not  seem  exactly 
interested,  he  certainly  behaved  with  some  oddity.  When  I 
told  him  what  my  grandmother  had  said  about  some  battle  in 
which  an  ancestor  had  worn  it,  his  arm  rose  with  a  jerk,  and 
the  motions  of  his  face,  especially  of  his  mouth,  which  appeared 
to  be  eating  its  own  teeth,  were  for  a  moment  grotesque.  When 
I  had  finished,  he  said,  with  indifferent  tone,  but  eager  face — 

"  Well,  it's  a  rusty  old  thing,  but  I  like  old  weapons.  I'll 
give  you  a  bran  new  officer's  sword,  as  bright  as  a  mirror,  for 
it — I  will.     There  now !     Is  it  a  bargain  ?" 

"  I  could  not  part  with  it,  sir — not  for  the  best  sword  in  the 
country,"  I  answered.  "  You  see  it  has  been  so  long  in  our 
family." 

"  Hem,  ha !  You're  quite  right,  my  boy.  I  wouldn't  if  I 
were  you.  But  as  I  see  you  know  how  to  set  a  right  value  on 
such  a  weapon,  you  may  stay  and  look  at  mine  as  long  as  you 
like.  Only  if  you  take  any  of  them  from  their  sheaths,  you 
must  be  very  careful  how  you  put  them  in  again.  Don't  use 
any  force.  If  there  is  any  one  you  can't  manage  easily,  just 
lay  it  on  the  window-sill,  and  I  will  attend  to  it.  Mind  you 
don't  handle — I  mean  touch  the  blades  at  all.  There  would 
be  no  end  of  rust-spots  before  morning." 

I  was  full  of  gratitude  for  the  confidence  he  placed  in  me, 

"I  can't  stop  now  to  tell  you  about  them  all,  but  I  will — 
some  day." 

So  saying  he  disappeared  once  more  up  the  little  staircase, 
leaving  me  like  Aladdin  in  the  jewel-forest.     I  had  not  been 


104  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

alouc  more  than  half  an  lioiir  or  so,  however,  when  he  returned, 
and  taking  down  a  dagger,  said  abruptly  : 

"  There,  that  is  the  dagger  with  which  Lord  Harry  Rolle- 
ston" — think  that  was  the  name,  but  knowing  nothing  of  the 
family  or  its  history,  I  could  not  keep  the  names  separate — 
"stabbed  his  brother  Gilbert.     And  there  is " 

He  took  down  one  after  another,  and  with  every  one  he  as- 
sociated some  fact — or  fancy  perhaps,  for  I  suspect  now  that 
he  invented  not  a  few  of  his  incidents. 

"They  have  always  been  fond  of  weapons  in  this  house,"  he 
said.  "There  now  is  one  with  the  strangest  story!  It's  in 
print — I  can  show  it  you  in  print  in  the  library  there.  It  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  magic  sword " 

"  Like  King  Arthur's  Excalibur  ?"  I  asked,  for  I  had  read 
a  good  deal  of  the  history  of  Prince  Arthur. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Close.  "  Well,  that  sword  had  been  in 
the  family  for  many  years — I  may  say  centuries.  One  day  it 
disappeared,  and  there  was  a  great  outcry.  A  lackey  had  been 
discharged  for  some  cause  or  other,  and  it  was  believed  he  had 
taken  it.  But  before  they  found  him,  the  sword  was  in  its 
place  upon  the  wall.  Afterwards  the  man  confessed  that  he 
had  taken  it,  out  of  revenge,  for  he  knew  how  it  was  prized. 
But  in  the  middle  of  the  next  night,  as  he  slept  in  a  roadside 
inn,  a  figure  dressed  in  ancient  armor  had  entered  the  room, 
taken  up  the  sword,  and  gone  away  with  it.  I  dare  say  it  was 
all  nonsense.  His  heart  had  failed  him  when  he  found  he  was 
followed,  and  he  had  contrived  by  the  help  of  some  fellow-ser- 
vant to  restore  it.  But  there  are  very  queer  stories  about  old 
weapons — swords  in  particular.  I  must  go  now,"  he  concluded, 
"  for  we  have  company  to-night,  and  I  have  a  good  many  things 
to  see  to." 

So  saying  he  left  me.  I  remained  a  long  time  in  the  armory, 
and  then  returned  to  the  library,  where  I  seated  myself  in  the 
same  corner  as  before,  and  went  on  with  my  reading — lost  in 
pleasure. 

All  at  once  I  became  aware  that  the  light  was  thickening, 
and  that  I  was  very  hungry.     At  the  same  moment  I  heard  a 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  105 

slight  rustle  in  the  room,  and  looked  round,  expecting  to  see 
Mrs.  Wilson  come  to  fetch  me.  But  there  stood  Miss  Clara — 
not  now  in  white,  however,  but  in  a  black  silk  frock.  She  had 
grown  since  I  saw  her  last,  and  was  prettier  than  ever.  She 
started  when  she  saw  me. 

"You  here!"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  we  had  known  each  other 
all  our  lives.     "  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  Beading,"  I  answered,  and  rose  from  the  floor,  replacing 
the  book  as  I  rose.  "  I  thought  you  were  Mrs.  Wilson  come 
to  fetch  me." 

"Is  she  coming  here?" 

"Yes.  She  told  me  not  to  leave  the  library  till  she  came 
for  me." 

"  Then  I  must  get  out  of  the  way." 

"AVhy  so.  Miss  Clara?"  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  mean  her  to  know  I  am  here.  If  you  tell,  I  shall 
think  you  the  meanest " 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  to  find  your  punishment  before 
you've  found  your  crime,"  I  said,  thinking  of  my  own  pro- 
cesses of  invention.     What  a  little  prig  I  must  have  been  ! 

"Very  well,  I  will  trust  you,"  she  returned,  holding  out  her 
hand — "  I  didn't  give  it  you  to  keep,  though,"  she  added,  find- 
ing that,  with  more  of  country  manners  than  tenderness,  I  fear, 
I  retained  it  in  my  boyish  grasp. 

I  felt  awkward  at  once,  and  let  it  go. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Now,  when  do  you  expect  Mrs. 
Wilson?" 

"I  don't  know  at  all.  She  said  she  would  fetch  me  for  din- 
ner.    There  she  comes,  I  do  believe." 

Clara  turned  her  head  like  a  startled  forest  creature  that 
wants  to  listen  but  does  not  know  in  what  direction,  and  moved 
her  feet  as  if  she  were  about  to  fly. 

"  Come  back  after  dinner,"  she  said :  "you  had  better  !"  and 
darting  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  lifted  a  piece  of  hanging 
tapestry,  and  vanished  just  in  time,  for  Mrs.  Wilson's  first 
words  crossed  her  last. 

"  My  dear  boy — Master  Cumbermede,  I  should  say,  I  am 


106  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

sorry  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  to  you  sooner.  One  thing 
after  another  has  kept  me  on  my  legs  till  I'm  ready  to  drop. 
The  cook  is  as  tiresome  as  cooks  only  can  be.  But  come  along ; 
I've  got  a  mouthful  of  dinner  for  you  at  last,  and  a  few 
minutes  to  eat  my  share  of  it  with  you,  I  hope." 

I  followed  without  a  word,  feeling  a  little  guilty,  but  only 
towards  Mrs.  Wilson,  not  towards  myself,  if  my  reader  will 
acknowledge  the  difference— for  I  did  not  feel  that  I  ought  to 
betray  Miss  Clara.  We  returned  as  we  came ;  and  certainly 
whatever  temper  the  cook  might  be  in,  there  was  nothing  amiss 
with  the  dinner.  Had  there  been,  however,  I  was  far  too  hun- 
gry to  find  fault  with  it. 

"Well,  how  have  you  enjoyed  yourself.  Master  Wilfrid ? 
Not  very  much,  I'm  afraid.  But  really  I  could  not  help  it," 
said  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"  I  couldn't  have  enjoyed  myself  more,"  I  answered.  "  If 
you  will  allow  me,  I'll  go  back  to  the  library  as  soon  as  I've 
done  my  dinner." 

"  But  it's  almost  dark  there  now." 

"  You  wouldn't  mind  letting  me  have  a  candle,  Mrs.  Wil- 
son?" 

"  A  candle,  child !  It  would  be  of  no  use.  The  place 
wouldn't  light  up  with  twenty  candles." 

"But  I  don't  want  it  lighted  up.  I  could  read  by  one  can- 
dle as  well  as  by  twenty." 

"  Very  well.  You  shall  do  as  you  like.  Only  be  careful,  for 
the  old  house  is  as  dry  as  tinder,  and  if  you  were  to  set  fire  to 
anything,  we  should  be  all  in  a  blaze  in  a  moment." 

"I  will  be  careful,  Mrs.  Wilson.  You  may  trust  me. 
Indeed  you  may." 

She  hurried  me  a  little  over  my  dinner.  The  bell  in  the 
court  rang  loudly. 

"  There's  some  of  them  already.  That  must  be  the  Sim- 
monses.  They're  always  early,  and  they  always  come  to  that 
gate — I  suppose  because  they  haven't  a  carriage  of  their  own, 
and  don't  like  to  drive  into  the  high  court  in  a  chaise  from  the 
George  and  Pudding." 


THE   HOUSE-STEWARD.  107 

"  I've  quite  done,  ma'am  :  may  I  go  now  ?" 

"  Wait  till  I  get  you  a  candle." 

She  took  one  from  a  press  in  the  room,  lighted  it,  led  me 
once  more  to  the  library,  and  there  left  me  with  the  fresh 
injunction  not  to  be  peeping  out  and  getting  in  the  way  of  the 
visitors. 


108  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER    XIIL 

THE   LEADS. 

The  moment  Mrs.  Wilson  was  gone,  I  expected  to  see  Clara 
peep  out  from  behind  the  tapestry  in  the  corner ;  but  as  she 
did  not  appear,  I  lifted  it  and  looked  in.  There  was  nothing 
behind  but  a  closet  almost  filled  with  books,  not  upon  shelves, 
but  heaped  up  from  floor  to  ceiling.  There  had  been  just 
room  and  no  more  for  Clara  to  stand  between  the  tapestry  and 
the  books.  It  was  of  no  use  attempting  to  look  for  her — at 
least  I  said  so  to  myself,  for  as  yet  the  attraction  of  an  old 
book  was  equal  to  that  of  a  young  girl.  Besides,  I  always 
enjoyed  waiting — up  to  a  certain  point.  Therefore  I  resumed 
my  place  on  the  floor,  with  the  Seven  Champions  in  one  hand 
and  my  chamber-candlestick  in  the  other. 

I  had  for  the  moment  forgotten  Clara  in  the  adventures  of 
St.  Andrew  of  Scotland,  when  the  silking  of  her  frock  aroused 
me.     She  was  at  my  side. 

"  Well,  you've  had  your  dinner  ?  Did  she  give  you  any 
dessert?" 

"  This  is  my  dessert,"  I  said,  holding  up  the  book.  "  It's 
far  more  than " 

"  Far  more  than  your  desert,"  she  pursued,  "  if  you  prefer 
it  to  me." 

"  I  looked  for  you  first,"  I  said  defensively. 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  closet  there." 

"  You  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  wait  there,  did  you  ? 
Why  the  very  spiders  are  hanging  dead  in  their  own  webs 
in  there.  But  here's  some  dessert  for  you — if  you're  as  fond 
of  apples  as  most  boys,"  she  added,  taking  a  small  rosy-cheeked 
beauty  from  her  pocket. 

I  accepted  it,  but  somehow  did  not  quite  relish  being  lumped 


THE   LEADS.  109 

"with  boys  in  that  fashiou.  As  I  ate  it,  which  I  should  have 
felt  bound  to  do  even  had  it  been  less  acceptable  in  itself^  she 
resumed — 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  the  company  arrive  ?  That'a 
what  I  came  for.     I  wasn't  going  to  ask  Goody  Wilson." 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  I  answered.  "  But  Mrs.  Wilson  told  me  to 
keep  here,  and  not  get  in  their  way." 

"  Oh  !  I'll  take  care  of  that.  We  shan't  go  near  them.  1 
know  every  corner  of  the  place — a  good  deal  better  than  Mrs. 
Wilson.     Come  along,  Wilfrid — that's  your  name,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is.     Am  I  to  call  you  Clara  T 

"Yes,  if  you  are  good — that  is  if  you  like.  I  don't  care 
what  you  call  me.     Come  along." 

I  followed.  She  led  me  into  the  armory,  A  great  clang 
of  the  bell  in  the  paved  court  fell  upon  our  ears. 

"  Make  haste,"  she  said,  and  darted  to  the  door  at  the  foot 
of  the  little  stair.  "  Mind  how  you  go,'*  she  went  on.  "  The 
steps  are  very  much  worn.  Keep  your  right  shoulder  fore- 
most." 

I  obeyed  her  directions,  and  followed  her  up  the  stair.  We 
passed  the  door  of  a  room  over  the  armory,  and  ascended  still, 
to  creep  out  at  last  through  a  very  low  door  on  to  the  leads  of 
the  little  square  tower.  Here  we  could  on  the  one  side  look 
into  every  corner  of  the  paved  court,  and  on  the  other,  across 
the  roof  of  the  hall,  could  see  about  half  of  the  high  court, 
as  they  called  it,  into  which  the  carriages  drove ;  and  from 
this  post  of  vantage  we  watched  the  arrival  of  a  good  many 
parties.  I  thought  the  ladies  tripping  across  the  paved  court, 
with  their  gay  dresses  lighting  up  the  spring  twilight,  and 
their  sweet  voices  rippling  its  almost  pensive  silence,  suited 
the  time  and  the  place  much  better  than  the  carriages  dashing 
into  the  other  court,  fine  as  they  looked  with  their  well-kept 
horses  and  their  servants  in  gay  liveries.  The  sun  was  down, 
and  the  moon  was  rising — near  the  full,  but  there  was  too 
much  light  in  the  sky  to  let  her  make  much  of  herself  yet.  It 
was  one  of  those  spring  evenings  which  you  could  not  tell 
fi.'om  an  autumn  one  except  for  a,  certain  something  in  the  air 


110  WILFRID   c;UxMBERMEDE. 

appealing  to  an  undefined  sense — rather  that  of  smell  than 
any  other.  There  were  green  buds  and  not  withering  leaves 
in  it — life  and  not  death ;  aud  the  voices  of  the  gathering 
guests  were  of  the  season,  and  pleasant  to  the  soul.  Of  course 
Nature  did  not  then  affect  me  ^o  definitely  as  to  make  me  give 
forms  of  thought  to  her  influences.  It  is  now  first  that  I  turn 
them  into  shapes  and  words. 

As  we  stood,  I  discovered  that  I  had  been  a  little  mistaken 
about  the  position  of  the  Hall.  I  saw  that,  although  from 
some  points  in  front  itr  seemed  to  stand  on  an  isolated  rock, 
the  ground  rose  behind  it,  terrace  upon  terrace,  the  upper- 
most of  which  terraces  was  crowned  with  rows  of  trees.  Over 
them  the  moon  was  now  gathering  her  strength, 

"  It  is  rather  cold ;  I  think  we  had  better  go  in,"  said  Clara, 
after  we  had  remained  there  for  some  minutes  without  seeing 
any  fresh  arrivals. 

"Very  well,"  I  answered.  "  What  shall  we  do?  Shall  you 
go  home?" 

"No,  certainly  not.  We  must  see  a  good  deal  more  of  the 
fiin  first." 

"  How  will  you  manage  that  ?  You  will  go  to  the  ball- 
room, I  suppose.     You  can  go  where  you  please,  of  course." 

"  Oh  no !  I'm  not  grand  enough  to  be  invited.  Oh,  dear 
no !  At  least  I  am  not  old  enough." 

"  But  you  will  be  some  day."  ' 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  We'll  see.  Meantime  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.     What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  I  shall  go  back  to  the  library." 

"Then  I'll  go  with  you — till  the  music  begins;  and  then 
I'll  take  you  where  you  can  see  a  little  of  the  dancing.  It's 
great  fun." 

"  But  how  will  you  manage  that  ?" 

"  You  leave  that  to  me." 

We  descended  at  once  to  the  armory,  where  I  had  left  my 
candle ;  and  thence  we  returned  to  the  library. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  mind — if  it's  anything  worth  hearing.'* 


THE   LEADS.  Ill 

"  Well,  I'll  read  you  a  bit  of  the  book  I  was  reading  when 
you  came  in." 

"  What !  that  musty  old  book !  No,  thank  you.  It's  enough 
to  give  one  the  horrors.  The  very  sight  of  it  is  enough.  How 
can  you  like  such  frumpy  old  things  ?" 

"  Oh  !  you  mustn't  mind  the  look  of  it,"  I  said.  -  "  It's  very 
nice  inside !" 

"  1  know  where  there  is  a  nice  one,"  she  returned.  "  Givo 
me  the  candle." 

I  followed  her  to  another  of  the  rooms,  where  she  searched 
for  some  time.  At  length — "  There  it  is !"  she  said,  and  put 
into  my  hand  The  Castle  of  Otranto.  The  name  promised 
well.  She  next  led  the  way  to  a  lovely  little  bay  window, 
forming  almost  a  closet,  which  looked  out  upon  the  park, 
whence,  without  seeing  the  moon,  we  could  see  her  light  on 
the  landscape,  and  the  great  deep  shadows  cast  over  the  park 
from  the  towers  of  the  Hall.  There  we  sat  on  the  broad 
wdndow  sill,  and  I  began  to  read.  It  was  delightful.  Does  it 
indicate  loss  of  power,  that  the  grown  man  cannot  enjoy  the 
book  in  which  the  boy  delighted  ?  Or  is  it  that  the  realities 
of  the  book,  as  perceived  by  his  keener  eyes,  refuse  to  blend 
with  what  imagination  would  supply  if  it  might  ? 

No  sooner,  however,  did  the  first  notes  of  the  distant  violins 
enter  the  ear  of  my  companion  than  she  started  to  her  feet. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  I  asked,  looking  up  from  the  book. 

"  Don't  you  hear  the  music  ?"  she  said,  half  indignantly. 

"  I  hear  it  now,"  I  answered  ,  "  but  why ?" 

"  Come  along,"  she  interrupted,  eagerly.  "  We  shall  just 
be  in  time  to  see  them  go  across  from  the  drawing-room  to  the 
ball-room.     Come,  come.     Leave  your  candle." 

I  put  down  my  book  with  some  reluctance.  She  led  me 
into  the  armory,  and  from  the  armory  out  on  the  gallery  half- 
encompassing  the  great  hall,  which  was  lighted  up,  and  full 
of  servants.  Opening  another  door  in  the  gallery,  she  con- 
ducted me  down  a  stair  which  led  almost  into  the  hall,  but, 
ascending  again  behind  it,  landed  us  in  a  little  lobby,  on  one 
side  of  which  was  the  drawing-room,  and  on  the  other  the 


112  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

ball-room,  on  another  level,  reached  by  a  few  high  semi- 
circular steps. 

"  Quick !  quick  !"  said  Clara,  and  turning  sharply  round, 
she  opened  another  door,  disclosing  a  square-built  stone  stair- 
case. She  pushed  the  door  carefully  against  the  wall,  ran  up 
a  few  steps,  I  following  in  some  trepidation,  turned  abruptly 
and  sat  down.  I  did  as  she  did,  questioning  nothing :  I  had 
committed  myself  to  her  superior  knowledge. 

The  quick  ear  of  my  companion  had  caught  the  first  sounds 
of  the  tuning  of  the  instruments,  and  here  we  were,  before  the 
invitation  to  dance,  a  customed  observance  at  Moldwarp  Hall, 
had  begun  to  play.  In  a  few  minutes  thereafter  the  door  of 
the  drawing-room  opened  ;  when,  pair  after  pair,  the  com- 
pany, to  the  number  of  over  a  hundred  and  fifty,  I  should 
guess,  walked  past  the  foot  of  the  stair  on  which  we  were 
seated,  and  ascended  the  steps  into  the  ball-room.  The  lobby 
was  dimly  lighted,  except  from  the  two  open  doors,  and  there 
was  little  danger  of  our  being  seen. 

I  interrupt  my  narrative  to  mention  the  odd  fact,  that  so 
fully  was  my  mind  possessed  with  the  antiquity  of  the  place, 
which  it  had  been  the  pride  of  generation  after  generation  to 
keep  up,  that  now  when  I  recall  the  scene,  the  guests  always 
appear  dressed  not  as  they  were  then,  but  in  a  far  more 
antique  style  with  which  after-knowledge  supplied  my  inner 
vision ! 

Last  of  all  came  Lady  Brotherton,  Sir  Giles's  wife,  a  pale, 
delicate-looking  woman,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  tall,  long- 
necked,  would-be-stately,  yet  insignificant-looking  man.  She 
gave  a  shiver  as,  up  the  steps  from  the  warm  drawing-room, 
she  came  at  once  opposite  our  open  door. 

*'  What  a  draught  there  is  here !"  she  said,  adjusting  her 
rose-colored  scarf  about  her  shoulders.  "It  feels  quite  wintry, 
Will  you  oblige  me,  Mr.  Mollet,  by  shutting  that  door  ?  Sir 
Giles  will  not  allow  me  to  have  it  built  up.  I  am  sure  there 
are  plenty  of  ways  to  the  leads  besides  that." 

"  This  door,  my  lady  ?"  asked  Mr.  Mollet. 

I  trembled  lest  he  should  see  us. 


THE   LEADS.  113 

"  Yes.  Just  throw  it  to.  There's  a  spring  lock  on  it.  I 
can't  think " 

The  slam  and  echoing  bang  of  the  closing  door  cut  off  the 
end  of  the  sentence.  Even  Clara  was  a  little  frightened,  for 
her  hand  stole  into  mine  for  a  moment  before  she  burst  out 
laughing. 

"  Hush !  hush !"  I  said.     "  They  will  hear  you." 

"  I  almost  wish  they  would,"  she  said.  "  What  a  goose  I 
was  to  be  frightened,  and  not  speak  I  Do  you  know  where  we 
ftre?'* 

"  No,"  I  answered  ;  "  how  should  I  ?     Where  are  we  ?" 

My  fancy  of  knowing  the  place  had  vanished  utterly  by 
this  time.  All  my  mental  charts  of  it  had  got  thoroughly 
confused,  and  I  do  not  believe  I  could  have  even  found  my 
way  back  to  the  library. 

"Shut  out  on  the  leads,"  she  answered.  "Come  along. 
We  may  as  well  go  to  meet  our  fate." 

I  confess  to  a  little  palpitation  of  the  heart  as  she  spoke,  for 
I  was  not  yet  old  enough  to  feel  that  Clara's  companionship 
made  the  doom  a  light  one.  Up  the  stair  we  wTut — here  no 
twisting  corkscrew,  but  a  broad  flight  enough,  with  square 
turnings.  At  the  top  was  a  door,  fastened  only  with  a  bolt 
inside — against  no  worse  housebreakers  than  the  winds  and 
rains.    When  we  emerged,  we  found  ourselves  in  the  open  night. 

"  Here  w^e  are  in  the  moon's  drawing-room  !"  said  Clara. 

The  scene  was  lovely.  The  sky  was  all  now — the  earth 
only  a  background  or  pedestal  for  the  heavens.  The  river, 
far  below,  shone  here  and  there  in  answer  to  the  moon,  while 
the  meadows  and  fields  lay  as  in  the  oblivion  of  sleep,  and 
the  wooded  hills  were  only  dark  formless  masses.  But  the 
sky  was  the  dwelling-place  of  the  moon,  before  whose  radi- 
ance, penetratingly  still,  the  stars  shrunk  as  if  they  would 
hide  in  the  flowing  skirts  of  her  garments.  There  was  scarce 
a  cloud  to  be  seen,  and  the  whiteness  of  the  moon  made  the 
blue  thin.  I  could  hardly  believe  in  what  I  saw.  It  was  as 
if  I  had  come  awake  without  getting  out  of  the  dream. 

We  were  on  the  roof  of  the  ball-room.     We  felt  the  rhyth- 
8 


114  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

mic  motion  of  the  dancing  feet  shake  the  building  in  time 
to  the  music.  "  A  low  melodious  thunder  "  buried  beneath — ■ 
above  the  eternal  silence  of  the  white  moon ! 

We  passed  to  the  roof  of  the  drawing-room.  From  it, 
upon  one  side,  we  could  peep  into  the  great  gothic  window  of 
the  hall  which  rose  high  above  it.  We  could  see  the  servants 
passing  and  repassing,  with  dishes  for  the  supper  which  was 
being  laid  in  the  dining-room  under  the  drawing-room,  for  the 
hall  was  never  used  for  entertainment  now,  except  on  such 
great  occasions  as  a  coming  of  age,  or  an  election  feast,  when 
all  classes  met. 

"  We  mustn't  stop  here,"  said  Clara.  "  We  shall  get  our 
deaths  of  cold." 

"  What  shall  we  do  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

"There  are  plenty  of  doors,"  she  answered — "only  Mrs. 
Wilson  has  a  foolish  fancy  for  keeping  them  all  bolted.  We 
must  try,  though." 

Over  roof  after  roof  we  went;  now  descending,  now 
ascending  a  few  steps ;  now"  walking  along  narrow  gutters, 
between  battlement  and  sloping  roof,  now  crossing  awkward 
junctions — trying  doors,  many  in  tower  and  turret — all  in 
vain !  Every  one  was  bolted  on  the  inside.  We  had  grown 
quite  silent,  for  the  case  looked  serious. 

"  This  is  the  last  door,"  said  Clara — "  the  last  we  can  reach. 
There  are  more  in  the  towers,  but  they  are  higher  up.  What 
shall  we  do  ?  Except  we  go  down  a  chimney,  I  don't  know 
what's  to  be  done." 

Still  her  voice  did  not  falter,  and  my  courage  did  not  give 
way.  She  stood  for  a  few  moments  silent.  I  stood  regarding 
her,  as  one  might  listen  for  a  doubtful  oracle. 

"  Yes,  I've  got  it !"  she  said  at  length.  "  Have  you  a  good 
head,  Wilfrid  ?" 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean,"  I  answered. 

"  Do  you  mind  being  on  a  narrow  place,  without  much  to 
hold  by?" 

"  High  up  ?"  I  asked  with  a  shiver. 

"Yes." 


THE   LEADS.  115 

For  a  moment  I  did  not  answer.  It  was  a  special  weakness 
of  my  physical  nature,  one  which  my  imagination  had  in- 
creased tenfold — the  absolute  horror  I  had  of  such  a  transit 
as  she  was  evidcKtly  about  to  propose.  My  worst  dreams — 
from  which  I  would  wake  with  my  heart  going  like  a  fire- 
engine,  were  of  adventures  of  the  kind.  But  before  a  woman 
how  could  I  draw  back  ?  I  would  rather  lie  broken  at  the 
bottom  of  the  wall.  And  if  the  fear  should  come  to  the 
worst,  I  could  at  least  throw  myself  down  and  end  it  so. 

"Well?"  I  said,  as  if  I  had  only  been  waiting  for  her 
exposition  of  the  case. 

"  Well !  "  she  returned.     "  Come  along  then." 

I  did  go  along — like  a  man  to  the  gallows  ;  only  I  would 
not  have  turned  back  to  save  my  life.  But  I  should  have 
hailed  the  slightest  change  of  purpose  in  her,  with  such 
pleasure  as  Daniel  must  have  felt  when  he  found  the  lions 
would  rather  not  eat  him.  She  retraced  our  steps  a  long  way 
— until  we  reached  the  middle  of  the  line  of  building  which 
divided  the  two  courts. 

"  There !"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  top  of  the  square 
tower  over  the  entrance  to  the  hall,  from  which  we  had 
watched  the  arrival  of  the  guests  ;  it  rose  about  nine  feet  only 
above  where  we  now  stood  in  the  gutter — "  I  know  I  left  the 
door  open  when  we  came  down.  I  did  it  on  purpose.  I  hate 
Goody  Wilson.  Lucky,  you  see  ! — that  is  if  you  have  a  head. 
And  if  you  haven't  it's  all  the  same ;  I  have." 

So  saying,  she  pointed  to  a  sort  of  flying  buttress  which 
sprung  sideways,  with  a  wide  span,  across  the  angle  the  tower 
made  with  the  hall,  from  an  embrasure  of  the  battlement  of 
the  hall,  to  the  outer  corner  of  the  tower,  itself  more  solidly 
buttressed.  I  think  it  must  have  been  made  to  resist  the 
outward  pressure  of  the  roof  of  the  hall ;  but  it  was  one  of 
those  puzzling  points  which  often  occur — and  oftenest  in 
domestic  architecture — where  additions  and  consequent  alterr.,- 
tions  have  been  made  from  time  to  time.  Such  will  occasion 
sometimes  as  much  conjecture  towards  their  explanation,  as  a 
disputed  passage  in  Shakspeare  or  ^Eschylus. 


116  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Could  she  mean  me  to  cross  that  hair-like  bridge  ?  The 
mere  thought  was  a  terror.  But  I  would  not  blench.  Fear 
I  confess — cowardice  if  you  will ; — poltroonery,  not. 

"  I  see,"  I  answered.  "  I  will  try.  If  I  fall,  don't  blame 
me.     I  will  do  my  best." 

"You  don't  think,"  she  returned,  "I'm  going  to  let  you  go 
alone  !  I  should  have  to  wait  hours  before  you  found  a  door 
to  let  me  down — except  indeed  you  went  and  told  Goody 
Wilson,  and  I  had  rather  die  where  I  am.  No,  no.  Come 
along.     I'll  show  you  how." 

With  a  rush  and  a  scramble,  she  was  up  over  the  round 
back  of  the  buttress  before  I  had  time  to  understand  that  she 
meant  as  usual  to  take  the  lead.  If  she  could  but  have  sent 
me  back  a  portion  of  her  skill,  or  lightness,  or  nerve,  or 
whatever  it  was,  just  to  set  me  off  with  a  rush  like  that !  But 
I  stood  preparing  at  once  and  hesitating.  She  turned  and 
looked  over  the  battlements  of  the  tower. 

"  Never  mind,  Wilfrid,"  she  said  ;  "  I'll  fetch  you  presently." 

"  No,  no  ;  "  I  cried.     "  Wait  for  me.     I'm  coming." 

I  got  astride  of  the  buttress,  and  painfully  forced  my  way 
up.  It  was  like  a  dream  of  leap-frog,  prolonged  under  jjain- 
fully  recurring  difficulties.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  persuaded 
myself  that  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  go  on  leap-frogging.  At 
length,  after  more  trepidation  and  brain-turning  than  I  care 
to  dwell  upon,  lest  even  now  it  should  bring  back  a  too  keen 
realization  of  itself,  I  reached  the  battlement,  seizing  which, 
with  one  shaking  hand,  and  finding  the  other  grasped  by 
Clara,  I  tumbled  on  the  leads  of  the  tower. 

"  Come  along  !  "  she  said.  "  You  see,  when  the  girls  like, 
they  can  beat  the  boys — even  at  their  own  games.  We're  all 
right  now." 

"  I  did  my  best,"  I  returned,  mightily  relieved.  "  Frn  not 
an  angel,  you  know.     I  can't  fly  like  you." 

She  seemed  to  appreciate  the  compliment. 

"  Never  mind.  I've  done  it  before.  It  was  game  of  you  to 
follow." 

Her  praise  elated  me  beyond  measure.     And  it  was  well. 


THE   LEADS.  117 

"  Come  along,"  she  added. 

She  seemed  to  be  always  saying  Come  along. 

I  obeyed,  full  of  gratitude  and  relief.  She  skipped  to  the 
tiny  turret  which  rose  above  our  heads,  and  lifted  the  door- 
latch.  But  instead  of  disappearing  within,  she  turned  and 
looked  at  me  in  white  dismay.  The  door  was  bolted.  Her 
look  roused  w^hat  there  was  of  manhood  in  me.  I  felt  that, 
as  it  had  now  come  to  the  last  gasp,  it  was  mine  to  comfort 
her. 

"  We  are  no  worse  than  we  were,"  I  said.     "  Never  mind." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  she  answered  mysteriously. — "  Can 
you  go  back  as  you  came  ?     I  can't." 

I  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  battlement  where  I  stood. 
There  was  the  buttress  crossing  the  angle  of  moonlight,  with 
its  shadow  lying  far  down  on  the  wall.  I  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  renewing  my  unspeakable  dismay.  But  what 
must  be  must.  Besides,  Clara  had  praised  me  for  creeping 
where  she  could  fly :  now  I  might  show  her  that  I  could 
creep  where  she  could  not  fly. 

"  I  will  try,"  returned  I,  putting  one  leg  over  the  battle- 
ment. 

"  Do  take  care,  Wilfrid,"  she  cried,  stretching  out  her 
hands,  as  if  to  keep  me  from  falling. 

A  sudden  pulse  of  life  rushed  through  me.  All  at  once  I 
became  not  only  bold,  but  ambitious. 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,"  I  said,  "  before  I  go." 

"  Do  you  make  so  much  of  it  ?"  she  returned,  stepping 
back  a  pace  — How  much  a  woman  she  was  even  then  ! — Her 
words  roused  something  in  me  which  to  this  day  I  have  not 
been  able  quite  to  understand.  A  sense  of  wrong  had  its 
share  in  the  feeling ;  but  what  else  I  can  hardly  venture  to 
say.  At  all  events,  an  inroad  of  careless  courage  was  the 
consequence.  I  stepped  at  once  upon  the  buttress,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  at  her — no  doubt  with  reproach.  She 
sjjrang  towards  mo. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said. 

The  end  of  the  buttress  was  a  foot  or  two  below  the  level 


118  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

of  the  leads,  where  Chira  stood.  She  bent  over  the  battle- 
ment, stooped  her  face  towards  me,  and  kissed  me  on  the 
mouth.  My  only  answer  was  to  turn  and  Vvalk  down  the 
buttress,  erect;  a  walk  which,  as  the  arch  of  the  buttress 
became  steeper,  ended  in  a  run  and  a  leap  on  to  the  gutter  of 
the  hall.  There  I  turned,  and  saw  her  stand  like  a  lady  in  a 
ballad  leaning  after  me  in  the  moonlight.  I  lifted  my  cap 
and  sped  away,  not  knowing  whither,  but  fancying  that  out  of 
her  sight  I  could  make  uu  my  mind  better.  Nor  was  I 
mistaken.  The  moment  I  sat  down,  my  brains  began  to  go 
about,  and  in  another  moment  I  saw  what  might  be 
attempted. 

In  going  from  roof  to  roof,  I  had  seen  the  little  gallery 
along  which  I  had  passed  with  Mrs.  Wilson  on  my  way  to  the 
library.  It  crossed  what  might  be  called  an  open  shaft  in  the 
building.  I  thought  I  could  manage,  roofed  as  it  was,  to  get 
in  by  the  open  side.  It  was  some  time  before  I  could  find  it 
again ;  but  when  I  did  come  upon  it  at  last,  I  saw  that  it  might 
be  done.  By  the  help  of  a  projecting  gargoyle,  curiously 
carved  in  the  days  when  the  wall  to  which  it  clung  formed 
part  of  the  front  of  the  building,  I  got  my  feet  upon  the 
wooden  rail  of  the  gallery,  caught  hold  of  one  of  the  small 
pillars  which  supported  the  roof,  and  slewed  myself  in.  I  was 
almost  as  glad  as  when  I  had  crossed  the  buttress,  for  below 
me  was  a  paved  bottom,  between  high  walls,  without  any  door, 
like  a  dry  well  in  the  midst  of  the  building. 

My  recollection  of  the  way  to  the  armory  I  found,  however, 
almost  obliterated.  I  knew  that  I  must  pass  through  a  bed- 
room at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  and  that  was  all  I  remembered. 
I  opened  the  door,  and  found  myself  face  to  face  with  a  young 
girl  with  wide  eyes.  She  stood  staring  and  astonished,  but  not 
frightened.  She  was  younger  than  Clara,  and  not  so  pretty. 
Her  eyes  were  dark,  and  so  was  the  hair  she  had  been  brush- 
ing. Her  face  would  have  been  quite  pale,  but  for  the  rosy 
tinge  of  surprise.  She  made  no  exclamation,  only  stared  with 
her  brush  in  her  hand,  and  questions  in  her  eyes.'  I  felt  far 
enough  from  comfortable ;  but  Avith  a  great  effort  I  spoke. 


SHE    BENT    OVER    THE    BATTLEMENT.     STOOrEl)     HER     FACE 
TOWARD    ME,     AND     KISSED    ME. 


THE   LEADS.  119 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  had  to  get  off  the  roof,  and  this  was 
the  only  way.     Please  do  not  tell  Mrs.  Wilson." 

"  No,"  she  said  at  once,  very  quietly ;  "  but  you  must  go 
away." 

"  If  I  could  only  find  the  library!"  I  said.  "  I  am  so  afraid 
of  going  into  more  rooms  where  I  have  no  business." 

"  I  will  show^  you  the  way,"  she  returned  with  a  smile ;  and 
laying  down  her  brush,  took  up  a  candle  and  led  me  from  the 
room. 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  safe.  My  conductor  vanished  at 
once.  The  glimmer  of  my  own  candle  in  a  further  room 
guided  me,  and  I  w^as  soon  at  the  top  of  the  corkscrew  stair- 
case. I  found  the  door  very  slightly  fastened :  Clara  must 
herself  have  unwittingly  moved  the  bolt  when  she  shut  it.  I 
found  her  standing  all  eagerness,  waiting  me.  We  hurried 
back  to  the  library^  and  there  I  told  her  how  I  had  effected  an 
entrance,  and  met  with  a  guide. 

"  It  must  have  been  little  Polly  Osborne,"  she  said.  "Her 
mother  is  going  to  stay  all  night,  I  suppose.  She's  a  good-na- 
tured little  goose,  and  Avon't  tell. — Now"  come  along.  We'll 
have  a  peep  from  the  picture-gallery  into  the  ball-room.  That 
door  is  sure  to  be  open." 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  Clara,  I  would  rather  stay  where  I  am. 
I  oughtn't  to  be  wandering  over  the  house  when  Mrs.  Wilson 
thinks  I  am  here." 

"Oh,  you  little  cow^ard!"  said  Clara. 

I  thought  I  hardly  deserved  the  word,  and  it  did  not  make^ 
me  more  inclined  to  accompany  her. 

"You  can  go  alone,"  I  said.  "You  did  not  expect  to  find 
me  when  you  came." 

"  Of  course  I  can.  Of  course  not.  It's  quite  as  well,  too. 
You  won't  get  me  into  any  more  scrapes." 

"  Did  I  get  you  into  the  scrape,  Clara  ?" 

"Yes,  you  did,"  she  answered,  laughing,  and  walked  away. 

I  felt  a  good  deal  hurt,  but  comforted  myself  by  saying  she 
could  not  mean  it,  and  sat  down  again  to  the  Seven  Champions. 


120  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   GHOST. 

I  SAW  no  more  of  Clara,  but  sat  and  read  until  I  grew  cold 
and  tired,  and  wished  very  much  that  Mrs.  Wilson  would  come. 
I  thought  she  might  have  forgot  me  iu  the  hurry,  and  there  I 
should  have  to  stay  all  night.  After  my  recent  escape,  how- 
ever, from  a  danger  so  much  worse,  I  could  regard  the  pros- 
pect with  some  composure.  A  full  hour  more  must  have 
passed;  I  was  getting  sleepy,  and  my  candle  had  burned  low, 
when  at  length  Mrs.  Wilson  did  make  her  appearance,  and  I 
accompanied  her  gladly. 

"  I  am  sure  you  want  your  tea,  poor  boy !"  she  said. 

"  Tea !  Mrs.  Wilson,"  I  rejoined.  "  It's  bed  I  want.  But 
when  I  think  of  it,  I  am  rather  hungry." 

"  You  shall  have  tea  and  bed  both,"  she  answered  kindly. 
"  I'm  sorry  you've  had  such  a  dull  evening,  but  I  could  not 
help  it." 

"  Indeed,  I've  not  been  dull  at  all,"  I  answered,  "  till  just 
the  last  hour  or  so." 

I  longed  to  tell  her  all  I  had  been  about,  for  I  felt  guilty; 
but  I  would  not  betray  Clara. 

"  Well,  here  we  are !"  she  said,  opening  the  door  of  her  own 
room.  "  I  hope  I  shall  have  peace  enough  to  see  you  make  a 
good  meal." 

I  did  make  a  good  meal.  When  I  had  done,  Mrs.  Wilson 
took  a  rush-light  and  led  the  way.  I  took  my  sword  and  fol- 
lowed her.  Into  what  quarter  of  the  house  she  conducted  me 
I  could  not  tell.  There  was  a  nice  fire  burning  in  the  room, 
and  my  night-apparel  was  airing  before  it.  She  set  the  light 
on  the  floor,  and  left  me  with  a  kind  good-night.  I  was  soon 
undressed  and  in  bed,  with  my  sword  beside  me  on  the  cover- 
lid of  silk  patchwork. 

But,  from  whatever  cause,  sleepy  as  I  had  been  a  little  while 


THE   GHOST.  121 

before,  I  lay  wide  awake  now,  staring  about  the  room.  Like 
many  others  in  the  house,  it  was  hung  with  tapestry,  which 
was  a  good  deal  wurn  and  patched — notably  in  one  place, 
where  limbs  of  warriors  and  horses  came  to  an  untimely  end  on 
all  sides  of  a  certain  square  piece  quite  different  from  the  rest  in 
color  and  design.  I  know  now  that  it  was  a  piece  of  Gobelins, 
in  the  midst  of  ancient  needlework.  It  looked  the  brigliter  of 
the  two,  but  its  colors  were  few,  with  a  good  deal  of  white ; 
whereas  that  which  surrounded  it  had  had  many  and  brilliant 
colors,  which,  faded,  and  dull  and  sombre,  yet  kept  their  har- 
mony. The  guard  of  the  rush-light  cast  deeper  and  queerer 
shadows,  as  the  fire  sank  lower.  Its  holes  gave  eyes  of  light 
to  some  of  the  figures  in  the  tapestry,  and  as  the  light  wavered, 
the  eyes  wandered  about  in  a  ghostly  manner,  and  the  shadows 
changed  and  flickered  and  lieaved  uncomfortably. 

How  long  I  had  lain  thus  I  do  not  know ;  but  at  last  I 
found  myself  watching  the  rectangular  patch  of  newer  tapes- 
try.    Could  it  be  that  it  moved  ?     It  could  be  only  the  effect 
of  the  wavering  shadows.     And  yet  I  could  not  convince  my- 
self that  it  did  not  move.     It  did  move.     It  came  forward. 
One  side  of  it  did  certainly  come  forward.     A  kind  of  uni- 
versal  cramp  seized  me — a  contraction  of  every  fibre  of  my 
body.     The  patch  opened  like  a  door — wider  and  wider ;  and 
from  behind  came  a  great  helmet,  peeping.     I  was  all  one 
terror,  but  my  nerves  held  out  so  far  that  I  lay  like  a  watching 
dog — watching  for  what  horror  would  come  next.     The  door 
opened  wider.     A  mailed   hand  and  arm  appeared,  and  at 
length  a  figure,  armed  cap-a-pie,  stepped  slowly  down,  stood 
for  a  moment  peering  about,  and  then  began  to  walk  through 
the  room,  as  if  searching  for  something.     It  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  bed.     I  wonder  now,  when  I  think  of  it,  that  the 
cold  horror  did  not  reach  my  heart.     I  cannot  have  been  so 
much  of  a  coward,  surely,  after  all !     But  I  susj^ect  that  it  was 
only  that  general  paralysis  prevented  the  extreme  of  terror, 
just  as  a  man  in  the  clutch  of  a  wild  beast  is  hardly  aware  of 
suffering.      At   last  the   figure    stooped   over   my   bed,   and 
stretched  out  a  long  arm.     I  remember  nothing  more. 


122  ^VILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

I  woke  in  the  gray  of  the  morning.  Could  a  faint  have 
passed  into  a  sleep  ?  or  was  it  all  a  dream  ?  1  lay  for  some 
time  before  I  could  recall  what  made  me  so  miserable.  At 
length  my  memory  awoke,  and  I  gazed  fearful  about  the  room. 
The  white  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  lire  were  lying  in  the  grate ; 
the  stand  of  the  rush-light  was  on  the  floor ;  the  wall  with  its 
tapestry  was  just  as  it  had  been ;  the  cold  gray  light  had  anni- 
hilated the  fancied  visions :  I  had  been  dreaming,  and  was  now 
awake.  But  I  could  not  lie  longer  in  bed.  I  must  go  out. 
The  morning  air  would  give  me  life ;  I  felt  worn  and  weak. 
Vision  or  dream,  the  room  was  hateful  to  me.  With  a  great 
effort  I  sat  up,  for  I  still  feared  to  move,  lest  I  should  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  armed  figure.  Terrible  as  it  had  been  in  the 
night,  it  would  be  more  terrible  now.  I  peered  into  every 
corner.  Each  was  vacant.  Then  first  I  remembered  that  I 
had  been  reading  the  Castle  of  Otranto  and  the  Seven  Chmn- 
pions  of  Christendom,  the  night  before.  I  jumped  out  of  bed 
and  dressed  myself,  growing  braver  and  braver  as  the  light  of 
the  lovely  spring  morning  swelled  in  the  room.  Having  dipped 
my  head  in  cold  water,  I  was  myself  again.  I  opened  the  lat- 
tice and  looked  out.  The  first  breath  of  air  was  a  denial  to  the 
w^hole  thing.  I  laughed  at  myself.  Earth  and  sky  were  alive 
with  spring.  The  wind  was  the  breath  of  the  coming  summer ; 
there  were  flakes  of  sunshine  and  shadow  in  it.  Before  me  lay 
a  green  bank  with  a  few^  trees  on  its  top.  It  was  crow  ded  wath 
primroses  growing  through  the  grass.  The  dew  was  lying  all 
about,  shining  and  sparkling  in  the  first  rays  of  the  level  sun, 
which  itself  I  could  not  see.  The  tide  of  life  rose  in  my  heart 
and  rushed  through  my  limbs.  I  would  take  my  sword,  and 
go  for  a  ramble  through  the  park.  I  w^ent  to  my  bed-side,  and 
stretched  across  to  find  it  by  the  wall.  It  must  have  slipped 
down  at  the  back  of  the  bed.  No.  Where  could  it  be  ?  In 
a  w^ord,  I  searched  everywhere,  but  my  loved  weapon  had  van- 
ished. The  visions  of  the  night  returned,  and  for  a  moment  I 
believed  them  all.  The  night  once  more  closed  around  me, 
darkened  yet  more  with  the  despair  of  an  irreparable  loss  I 
rushed  from  the  room  and  through  a  long  passage,  with  the 


THE  GHOST.  123 

blind  desire  to  get  out.  The  stare  of  an  unwashed  maid, 
already  busy  with  her  pail  and  brush,  brought  me  to  my  senses. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said ;  "  I  want  to  get  out." 
She  left  her  implements,  led  me  down  a  stair  close  at  hand, 
opened  the  door  at  its  foot,  and  let  me  out  into  the  high  court. 
I  gazed  about  me.  It  was  as  if  I  had  escaped  from  a  prison 
cell  into  the  chamber  of  torture:  I  stood  the  centre  of  a  multi- 
tude of  windows — the  eyes  of  the  house  all  fixed  upon  me. 
On  one  side  was  the  great  gate,  through  which,  from  the  roof 
I  had  seen  the  carriages  drive  the  night  before;  but  it  was 
closed.  I  remembered,  however,  that  Sir  Giles  had  brought 
me  in  by  a  wicket  in  that  gate.  I  hastened  to  it.  There  was 
but  a  bolt  to  withdraw^,  and  I  was  free. 

But  all  was  gloomy  within,  and  genial  nature  could  no  long- 
er enter.  Glittering  jewels  of  sunlight  and  dew  were  nothing 
but  drops  of  water  upon  blades  of  grass.  Fresh-bursting  trees 
were  no  more  than  the  deadest  of  winter-bitten  branches.  The 
great  eastern  window  of  the  universe,  gorgeous  with  gold  and 
roses,  was  but  the  weary  sun  making  a  fuss  about  nothing.  My 
sole  relief  lay  in  motion.  I  roamed,  I  knew  not  whither,  nor 
how  long. 

At  length  I  found  myself  on  a  height  eastward  of  the  Hall, 
overlooking  its  gardens,  which  lay  in  deep  terraces  beneath. 
Inside  a  low  wall  was  the  first  of  them,  dark  with  an  avenue 
of  ancient  trees,  and  below  was  the  large  oriel  window  in  the 
end  of  the  ball-room.  I  climbed  over  the  wall,  which  was 
built  of  cunningly  fitted  stones,  with  mortar  only  in  the  top 
row ;  and,  drawn  by  the  gloom,  strolled  up  and  down  the  ave- 
nue for  a  long  time.  At  length  I  became  aware  of  a  voice  I 
had  heard  before.  I  could  see  no  one  ;  but,  hearkening  about, 
I  found  it  must  come  from  the  next  terrace.  Descending  by  a 
deep  flight  of  old  mossy  steps,  I  came  upon  a  strip  of  smooth 
sward,  w^ith  yew-trees,  dark  and  trim,  on  each  side  of  it.  At 
the  end  of  the  walk  was  an  arbor,  in  which  I  could  see  the 
glimmer  of  something  white.  Too  miserable  to  be  shy,  I  ad- 
vanced and  peeped  in.  The  girl  who  had  shown  me  the  way 
to  the  library  was  talking  to  her  mother. 


124  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Mamma !"  she  said,  without  showing  any  surprise,  "  here 
is  the  boy  who  came  into  our  room  kist  night." 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  the  lady  kindly,  making  room  for 
me  on  the  bench  beside  her. 

I  answered  a^  politely  as  I  could,  and  felt  a  strange  comfort 
glide  from  the  sweetness  of  her  countenance. 

" W  hat  an  adventure  you  had  last  night !"  she  said.  "  It 
was  well  you  did  not  fall." 

"  That  wouldn't  have  been  much  worse  than  having  to  stop 
where  we  were,"  I  answered. 

The  conversation  thus  commenced  went  on  until  I  had  told 
them  all  my  history,  including  my  last  adventure. 

"  You  must  have  dreamed  it,"  said  the  lady. 

"  So  I  thought,  ma'am,"  I  answered,  "  until  I  found  that  my 
sword  was  gone." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  looked  everywhere?"  she  asked. 

"  Indeed,  I  did." 

"  It  does  not  follow,  however,  that  the  ghost  took  it.  It  is 
more  likely  Mrs.  Wilson  came  in  to  see  you  after  you  were 
asleep,  and  carried  it  off." 

"Oh,  yes!"  I  cried,  rejoiced  at  the  suggestion;  "that  must 
be  it.     I  shall  ask  her." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  find  it  so.     Are  you  going  home  soon?" 

"  Yes — as  soon  as  I've  had  my  breakfast.  It's  a  good  walk 
from  here  to  Aid  wick." 

"  So  it  is. — We  are  going  that  way  too,"  she  added,  tliink- 
ingly. 

"  Mr.  Elder  is  a  great  friend  of  papa's — isn't  he,  mamma  ?" 
said  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  my  dear.     They  were  friends  at  college." 

"  I  have  heard  Mr.  Elder  speak  of  Mr.  Osborne,"  I  said. 
"  Do  you  live  near  us  ?" 

"  Not  very  far  off — in  the  next  parish  where  my  husband  is 
rector,"  she  answered.  "  If  you  could  wait  till  the  afternoon, 
we  should  be  happy  to  take  you  there.  The  pony  carriage  is 
coming  for  us." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  I  ought  to  go  im- 


THE   GHOST.  125 

mediately  after  breakfast.     You  won't  mention  about  the  roof, 
will  you  ?     I  oughtn't  to  get  Clara  into  trouble." 

"  She  is  a  w^ild  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Osborne ;  "  but  I  think  you 
are  quite  right." 

"How  lucky  it  was  I  knew  the  library!"  said  Mary,  who 
had  become  quite  friendly,  from  under  her  mother's  wing. 

"That  it  was!  But  I  dare  say  you  know  all  about  the 
place,"  I  answered. 

"  No,  indeed !"  she  returned.  "  I  know  nothing  about  it. 
As  we  went  to  our  room,  mamma  opened  the  door  and  showed 
me  the  library,  else,  I  shouldn't  have  been  able  to  help  you  at 
all." 

"  Then  you  haven't  been  here  often  ?" 

"  No ;  and  I  never  shall  be  again.  I'm  going  away  to 
school,"  she  added;  and  her  voice  trembled. 

"  So  am  I,"  I  said.  "  I'm  going  to  Switzerland  in  a  month 
or  two.     But  then  I  haven't  a  mamma  to  leave  behind  me.'* 

She  broke  down  at  that,  and  hid  her  head  on  her  mother's 
bosom.  I  had  unawares  added  to  her  grief,  for  her  brother 
Charley  was  going  to  Switzei'land  too. 

I  found  afterwards  that  Mr.  Elder,  having  been  consulted 
by  Mr.  Osborne,  had  arranged  with  my  uncle  that  Charley  Os- 
borne and  I  should  go  together. 

IMary  Osborne — I  never  called  her  Polly  as  Clara  did — con- 
tinued so  overcome  by  her  grief  that  her  mother  turned  to  me 
and  said, 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go,  Master  Cumbermede." 

I  bade  her  good  morning,  and  made  my  way  to  Mrs.  Wil- 
son's apartment.  I  found  she  had  been  to  my  room,  and  was 
expecting  me  with  some  anxiety,  fearing  I  had  set  off  without 
my  breakfast.  Alas !  she  knew  nothing  about  the  sword,  looked 
annoyed,  and,  I  thought,  rather  mysterious ;  said  she  would 
have  a  search,  make  inquiries,  do  what  she  could,  and  such 
like,  but  begged  I  would  say  nothing  about  it  in  the  house.  I 
left  her  with  a  suspicion  that  she  believed  the  ghost  had  carried 
it  away,  and  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  go  searching  after  it. 

Two  days  after,  a  parcel  arrived  for  me.     I  concluded  it  was 


126  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

my  swortl ;  but  to  my  grievous  disappointment,  found  it  was 
only  a  large  hamper  of  a])i>les  and  cakes,  very  acceptable  in 
themselves,  but  too  plainly  indicating  Mrs.  Wilson's  desire  to 
console  me  for  an  irreparable  loss.  Mr.  Elder  never  missed 
the  sword.  I  rose  high  in  the  estimation  of  my  schoolfellows 
because  of  the  adventure,  especially  in  that  of  Moberly,  who 
did  not  believe  in  the  ghost,  but  ineffectually  tasked  his  poor 
brains  to  account  for  the  disappearance  of  the  weapon.  The 
best  light  was  thrown  upon  it  by  a  merry  boy  of  the  name  of 
Fisher,  who  declared  his  conviction  that  the  steward  had  car- 
ried it  off  to  add  to  his  collection. 


AWAY.  127 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AWAY. 

I  WILL  not  linger  longer  over  this  part  of  my  history — 
already,  I  fear,  much  too  extended  for  the  patience  of  my 
readers.  My  excuse  is,  that  in  looking  back,  the  events  I 
have  recorded  appear  large  and  prominent,  and  that  certainly 
they  have  a  close  relation  with  my  after  history. 

The  time  arrived  when  I  had  to  leave  England  for  Switzer- 
land. I  will  say  nothing  of  my  leave-taking.  It  was  not  a 
bitter  one.  Hope  was  strong,  and  rooted  in  present  pleasure. 
I  was  capable  of  much  happiness — keenly  responsive  to  the 
smallest  agreeable  impulse  from  without  or  from  within.  I 
had  good  health,  and  life  was  happiness  in  itself  The  blow- 
ing of  the  wind,  the  shining  of  the  sun,  or  the  glitter  of  water, 
was  sufficient  to  make  me  glad ;  and  I  had  self-consciousness 
enough  to  increase  the  delight  by  the  knowledge  that  I  was 
glad. 

The  fact  is  I  was  coming  in  for  my  share  in  the  spiritual  in. 
fluences  of  Nature,  so  largely  poured  on  the  heart  and  mind 
of  my  generation.  The  prophets  of  the  new  blessing,  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge,  I  knew  nothing  of  Keats  was  only 
beginning  to  write.  I  had  read  a  little  of  Cowper,  but  did  not 
care  for  him.  Yet  I  was  under  the  same  spell  as  they  all. 
Nature  was  a  power  upon  me  I  was  filled  with  the  vague 
recognition  of  a  present  soul  in  Nature — with  a  sense  of  the 
humanity  everywhere  diffused  through  her  and  operating 
upon  ours.  I  was  but  fourteen,  and  had  only  feelings,  but 
something  lay  at  the  heart  of  the  feelings,  which  would  one 
day  blossom  into  thoughts. 

At  the  coach-office  in  the  county-town  I  first  met  ray  future 
companion,  with  his  father,  who  was  to  see  us  to  our  destina- 
tion.   My  uncle  accompanied  me  no  farther,  and  I  soon  found 


128  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

myself  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  with  only  one  thing  to  do — 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Charles  Osborne.  His  father  was 
on  the  box-seat,  and  we  two  sat  behind ;  but  we  were  both  shy, 
and  for  some  time  neither  spoke.  Charles  was  about  my  own 
age,  rather  like  his  sister,  only  that  his  eyes  were  blue,  and 
his  hair  a  lightish  brown.  A  tremulousness  about  the  mouth 
betrayed  a  nervous  temperament.  His  skin  was  very  fair  and 
thin,  showing  the  blue  veins.  As  he  did  not  speak,  I  sat  for 
a  little  while  watching  him,  without,  however,  the  least  specu- 
lation concerning  him,  or  any  effort  to  discover  his  character. 
I  have  not  even  yet  reached  the  point  of  trying  to  find  people 
out.  I  take  what  time  and  acquaintance  discloses,  but  never 
attempt  to  forestall,  which  may  come  partly  from  trust,  partly 
from  want  of  curiosity,  partly  from  a  disinclination  to  unne- 
cessary mental  eifort.  But  as  I  w^atched  his  face,  half-uncon- 
sciously,  I  could  not  help  observing  that  now  and  then  it 
would  light  up  suddenly  and  darken  again  almost  instantly. 
At  last  his  father  turned  round,  and  with  some  severity, 
said : — 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  be  making  any  approaches  to  mutual 
acquaintance.  Charles,  why  don't  you  address  your  compan- 
ion?" 

The  words  were  uttered  in  the  slow  tone  of  one  used  to 
matters  too  serious  for  common  speech. 

The  boy  cast  a  hurried  glance  at  me,  smiled  uncertainly, 
and  moved  uneasily  on  his  seat.  His  father  turned  away  and 
made  a  remark  to  the  coachman. 

Mr.  Osborne  was  a  very  tall,  thin,  yet  square-shouldered 
man,  with  a  pale  face,  and  large  features  of  delicate  form. 
He  looked  severe,  pure,  and  irritable.  The  tone  of  his  voice, 
although  the  words  were  measured  and  rather  stilted,  led  me 
to  this  last  conclusion  quite  as  much  as  the  expression  of  his 
face ;  for  it  was  thin  and  a  little  acrid.  I  soon  observed  that 
Charley  started  slightly,  as  often  as  his  father  addressed  him ; 
but  this  might  be  because  his  father  always  did  so  with  more 
or  less  of  abruptness.  At  times  there  was  great  kindness  in 
his  manner,  seeming,  however,  less  the  outcome  of  natural 


AWAY.  129 

tenderness  than  a  sense  of  duty.  His  being  was  evidently  a 
weight  upon  his  son's,  and  kept  down  the  natural  movements 
of  his  spirit.  A  number  of  small  circumstances  only  led  me 
to  these  conclusions  ;  for  nothing  remarkable  occurred  to  set 
in  any  strong  light  their  mutual  relation.  For  his  side 
Charles  was  always  attentive  and  ready,  although  with  a 
promptitude  that  had  more  in  it  of  the  mechanical  impulse  of 
habit  than  of  pleased  obedience.  Mr.  Osborne  spoke  kindly 
to  me — I  think  the  more  kindly  that  I  was  not  his  son,  and  he 
was  therefore  not  so  responsible  for  me.  But  he  looked  as  if 
the  care  of  the  whole  world  lay  on  his  shoulders ;  as  if  an 
awful  destruction  were  the  most  likely  thing  to  happen  to  every 
one,  and  to  him  were  committed  the  toilsome  chance  of  saving 
some.  Doubtless  he  would  not  have  trusted  his  boy  so  far 
from  home,  but  that  the  clergyman  to  whom  he  was  about  to 
hand  him  over  was  an  old  friend,  of  the  same  religious  opin- 
ions as  himself. 

I  could  well  but  must  not  linger  over  the  details  of  our 
journey,  full  to  me  of  most  varied  pleasure.  The  constant 
change,  not  so  rapid  as  to  prevent  the  mind  from  reposing  a 
little  upon  the  scenes  which  presented  themselves ;  the  passing 
vision  of  countries  and  peoples,  manners  and  modes  of  life,  so 
different  from  our  own,  did  much  to  arouse  and  develop  my 
nature.  Those  flashes  of  pleasure  came  upon  Charles's  pale 
face  more  and  more  frequently ;  and  ere  the  close  of  the  first 
day  we  had  begun  to  talk  with  some  degree  of  friendliness. 
But  it  became  clear  to  me  that  with  his  father  ever  blocking  up 
our  horizon,  whether  he  sat  with  his  broad  back  in  front  of  us 
on  the  coach-box,  or  paced  the  deck  of  a  vessel,  or  perched  with 
VIS  under  the  hood  on  the  top  of  a  diligence,  we  should  never 
arrive  at  any  freedom  of  speech.  I  sometimes  wondered,  long 
after,  whether  Mr.  Osborne  had  begun  to  discover  that  he  was 
overlaying  and  smothering  the  young  life  of  his  boy,  and  had 
therefore  adopted  the  plan  so  little  to  have  been  expected  from 
him,  of  sending  his  son  to  foreign  parts  to  continue  his 
education. 

I  have  no  distinct  recollection  of  dates,  or  even  of  the  exact 
9 


130  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

season  of  the  year.  I  believe  it  was  the  early  summer,  but  in  my 
memory  the  whole  journey  is  now  a  mass  of  confused  loveliness 
and  pleasure.  Not  that  wc  had  the  best  of  weather  all  the 
way.  I  well  recollect  pouring  rains,  and  from  the  fact  that 
I  distinctly  remember  my  first  view  of  an  Alpine  height,  I  am 
certain  we  must  have  had  days  of  mist  and  rain  immediately 
before.  That  sight,  however,  to  me  more  like  an  individual 
revelation  or  vision  than  the  impact  of  an  object  upon  the 
brain,  stands  in  my  mind  altogether  isolated  from  preceding 
and  following  impressions — alone,  a  thing  to  praise  God  for, 
if  there  be  a  God  to  praise.  If  there  be  not,  then  was  the 
whole  thing  a  grand  and  lovely  illusion,  worthy,  for  grandeur 
and  loveliness,  of  a  world  with  a  God  at  the  heart  of  it.  But 
the  grandeur  and  the  loveliness  spring  from  the  operation  of 
natural  laws ,  the  laws  themselves  are  real  and  true — how 
could  the  false  result  from  them  ?  I  hope  yet  and  will  hope 
that  I  am  not  a  bubble  filled  with  the  mocking  breath  of  a 
Mephistopheles,  but  a  child  whom  his  infinite  Father  will  not 
hardly  judge  that  he  could  not  believe  in  him  so  much  as  he 
would.     I  will  tell  how  the  vision  came. 

Although  comparatively  few  people  visited  Switzerland  in 
those  days,  Mr.  Osborne  had  been  there  before,  and  for  some 
reason  or  other  had  determined  on  going  round  by  Inter- 
lachen.  At  Thun  we  found  a  sail-boat  which  we  hired  to  take 
us  and  our  luggage.  At  starting,  an  incident  happened  which 
would  not  be  worth  mentioning,  but  for  the  impression  it 
made  upon  me :  a  French  lady  accompanied  by  a  young  girl 
approached  Mr.  Osborne — doubtless  perceiving  he  was  a  clergy- 
man, for,  being  an  Evangelical  of  the  most  pure,  honest  and 
narrow  type,  he  was  in  every  point  and  line  of  his  countenance 
marked  a  priest  and  apart  from  his  fellow-men — and  asked 
him  to  allow  her  and  her  daughter  to  go  in  the  boat  with  us  to 
Interlachen.  A  glow  of  pleasure  awoke  in  me  at  sight  of  his 
courtly  behaviour,  with  lifted  hat  and  bowed  head  ;  for  I  had 
never  been  in  the  company  of  such  a  gentleman  before.  But  the 
wish  instantly  followed  that  his  son  might  have  shared  in  his 
courtesy.     We  partook  freely  of  his  justice  and  benevolence, 


AWAY.  131 

but  he  showed  us  no  such  grace  as  he  showed  the  lady.  I 
have  since  observed  that  sons  are  endlessly  grateful  for 
courtesy  from  their  fathers. 

The  lady  and  her  daughter  sat  down  in  the  stern  of  the 
boat;  and  therefore  Charley  and  I,  not  certainly  to  our  dis- 
comfiture, had  to  go  before  the  mast.  The  men  rowed  out  into 
the  lake,  and  then  hoisted  the  sail.  Away  we  went  careering 
before  a  pleasant  breeze.  As  yet  it  blew  fog  and  mist,  but  the 
hope  was  that  it  would  soon  blow  it  away. 

An  unspoken  friendship  by  this  time  bound  Charley  and  me 
together,  silent  in  its  beginnings  and  slow  in  its  growth — not 
the  w^orst  pledges  of  endurance.  And  now,  for  the  first  time 
in  our  journey,  Charley  was  hidden  from  his  father :  the  sail 
came  between  them.  He  glanced  at  me  with  a  slight  sigh, 
which  even  then  I  took  for  an  involuntary  sigh  of  relief.  We 
lay  leaning  over  the  bows,  now  looking  up  at  the  mist  blown 
in  never-ending  volumed  sheets,  now  at  the  sail  swelling  in  the 
wind  before  which  it  fled,  and  again  down  at  the  water 
through  which  our  boat  was  ploughing  its  effervescent  furrow. 
We  could  see  very  little.  Portions  of  the  shore  would  now 
and  then  appear,  dim,  like  reflections  from  a  tarnished  mirror, 
and  then  fade  back  into  the  depths  of  cloudy  dissolution. 
Still  it  was  growing  lighter,  and  the  man  who  was  on  the  out- 
look became  less  anxious  in  his  forward  gaze,  and  less  frequent 
in  his  calls  to  the  helmsman.  I  was  lying  half  over  the  gun- 
wale, looking  into  the  strange-colored  water,  blue  dimmed 
with  undissolved  white,  when  a  cry  from  Charles  made  me 
start  and  look  up.  It  was  indeed  a  God-like  vision.  The  mist 
yet  rolled  thick  below,  but  away  up,  far  away  and  far  up,  yet 
as  if  close  at  hand,  the  clouds  were  broken  into  a  mighty 
window,  through  which  looked  in  upon  us  a  huge  mountain 
peak,  swathed  in  snow.  One  great  level  band  of  darker  cloud 
crossed  its  breast,  above  which  rose  the  peak,  triumphant  in 
calmness,  and  stood  unutterably  solemn  and  grand,  in  clouds 
as  white  as  its  own  whiteness.  It  had  been  there  all  the  time ! 
I  sank  on  my  knees  in  the  boat  and  gazed  up.  With  a  sud- 
den sweep  the  clouds  curtained  the  mighty  window,  and  the 


132  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Juiigfrau  withdrew  into  its  Holy  of  Holies.  I  am  painfully 
conscious  of  the  helplessness  of  ray  speech.  The  vision  van- 
ishes from  the  words  as  it  vanished  from  the  bewildered  eyes. 
But  from  the  mind  it  glorified  it  has  never  vanished.  I  have 
been  more  ever  since  that  sight.  To  have  beheld  a  truth  is  an 
apotheosis.  What  the  truth  was  I  could  not  tell ;  but  I  had 
seen  something  which  raised  me  above  my  former  self  and 
made  me  long  to  rise  higher  yet.  It  awoke  worship,  and  a 
belief  in  the  incomprehensible  divine ;  but  admitted  of  being 
analyzed  no  more  than,  in  that  transient  vision,  my  intellect 
could — ere  dawning  it  vanished — analyze  it  into  the  deserts  of 
rock,  the  gulfs  of  green  ice  and  flowing  water,  the  savage  soli- 
tudes of  snow,  the  mysterious  miles  of  draperied  mist,  that 
went  to  make  up  the  vision,  each  and  all  essential  thereto. 

I  had  been  too  much  given  to  the  attempted  production  in 
myself  of  effects  to  justify  the  vague  theories  towards  which  my 
inborn  free  possessions  carried  me.  I  had  felt  enough  to  be- 
lieve there  was  more  to  be  felt ;  and  such  stray  scraps  of  verse 
of  the  new  order  as,  floating  about,  had  reached  me,  had  set  me 
questioning  and  testing  my  own  life  and  perceptions  and  sym- 
pathies by  what  these  awoke  in  me  at  second-hand.  I  had 
often  doubted,  oppressed  by  the  powder  of  these,  whether  I 
could  myself  see,  or  whether  my  sympathy  with  Nature  w^as 
not  merely  inspired  by  the  vision  of  others.  Ever  after  this, 
if  such  a  doubt  returned,  with  it  arose  the  Jungfrau,  looking 
into  my  very  soul. 

"  Oh  Charley !"  was  all  I  could  say.  Our  hands  met 
blindly,  and  clasped  each  other.     I  burst  into  silent  tears. 

When  I  looked  up,  Charley  was  staring  into  the  mist  again. 
His  eyes  too  were  full  of  tears,  but  some  troubling  contradic- 
tion prevented  their  flowing .  I  saw  it  by  the  expression  of 
that  mobile  but  now  firmly  closed  mouth. 

Often  ere  we  left  Switzerland  I  saw  similar  glories :  this 
vision  remains  alone,  for  it  was  the  first. 

I  will  not  linger  over  the  tempting  delight  of  the  village 
near  which  we  landed,  its  houses  covered  with  quaintly 
notched  wooden  scales,  like  those  of  a  fish,  and  its  river  full  to 


AWAY.  133 

the  brim  of  white-blue  water,  rushing  from  the  far-off  bosom 
of  the  glaciers.  I  had  never  had  such  a  sense  of  exuberance 
and  plenty  as  this  river  gave  me  —  especially  where  it 
filled  the  planks  and  piles  of  wood  that  hemmed  it  in  like  a 
trough.  I  might  agonize  in  words  for  a  day  and  I  should  not 
express  the  delight,  .^nd,  lest  my  readers  should  apprehend 
a  diary  of  a  tour,  x  shall  say  nothing  more  of  our  journey, 
remarking  only  that  if  Switzerland  were  to  become  as  com- 
mon to  the  mere  tourist  mind  as  Cheapside  is  to  a  Londoner, 
the  meanest  of  its  glories  would  be  no  whit  impaired  thereby. 
Sometimes,  I  confess,  in  these  days  of  overcrowded  cities, 
when,  in  periodical  floods,  the  lonely  places  of  the  earth  are 
from  them  inundated,  I  do  look  up  to  the  heavens  and  say  to 
myself  that  there  at  least,  between  the  stars,  even  in  thickest 
of  nebulous  constellations,  there  is  yet  plenty  of  pure,  un- 
adulterated room — not  even  a  vapor  to  hang  a  color  upon ; 
but  presently  I  return  to  my  better  mind  and  say,  that  any 
man  who  loves  his  fellow  will  yet  find  he  has  room  enough 
and  to  spare. 


134  WILFKID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  ICE-CAVE. 

During  our  journey  Mr.  Osborne  had  seldom  talked  to  us, 
and  far  more  seldom  in  speech  sympathetic.  If  by  chance  I 
came  out  with  anything  I  thought  or  felt,  even  if  he  did  not 
disapprove  altogether,  he  would  yet  first  lay  hold  of  some- 
thing to  which  he  could  object,  coming  round  only  by  degrees, 
1  and  with  differences,  to  express  a  little  consent.  Evidently 
with  him  objection  was  the  first  step  in  instruction.  It  was 
better  in  his  eyes  to  say  you  were  wrong  than  to  say  you  were 
right,  even  if  you  should  be  -  much  more  right  than  wrong. 
y  He  had  not  the  smallest  idea  of  siding  with  the  truth  in  you, 
of  digging  about  it  and  watering  it,  until  it  grew  a  great  tree 
in  which  all  your  thought-birds  might  nestle  and  sing  their 
songs ;  but  he  must  be  ever  against  the  error — forgetting  that 
the  only  antagonist  of  the  false  is  the  true.  "  What,"  I  used 
to  thiuk  in  after  years,  "  is  the  use  of  battering  the  walls  to 
get  at  the  error,  when  the  kindly  truth  is  holding  the  postern 
open  for  you  to  enter  and  pitch  it  out  of  the  window  ?" 

The  evening  before  we  parted,  he  gave  us  a  solemn  admon- 
ishment on  the  danger  of  being  led  astray  by  what  men  called 
the  beauties  of  Nature' — for  the  heart  was  so  desperately 
wicked,  that  even  of  the  things  Grod  had  made  to  show  his 
power,  it  would  make  snares  for  our  destruction.  I  will  not 
go  on  with  his  homily,  out  of  respect  for  the  man ;  for 
there  was  much  earnestness  in  him,  and  it  would  utterly 
shame  me  if  I  were  supposed  to  hold  that  up  to  the  contempt 
which  the  forms  it  took  must  bring  upon  it.  Besides,  he 
made  such  a  free  use  of  the  most  sacred  of  names,  that  I 
shrink  from  representing  his  utterance.  A  good  man  I  do  not 
""  doubt  he  was ;  but  he  did  the  hard  parts  of  his  duty  to  the 
I    neglect  of  the  genial  parts,  and  therefore  was  not  a  man  to 


THE   ICE-CAVE.  135 

help  others  to  be  good.  His  own  son  revived  the  moment  he 
took  his  leave  of  us — began  to  open  up,  as  the  little  red 
flower  called  the  Shepherd's  Hour-Glass  opens  when  the  cloud 
withdraws.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  when  the  father  is  the  cloud 
and  not  the  sun  of  his  child's  life.  If  Charley  had  been  like 
the  greater  number  of  boys  I  have  known,  all  this  would  only 
have  hardened  his  mental  and  moral  skin  by  the  natural  pro- 
cess of  accommodation.  But  his  skin  would  not  harden,  and 
the  evil  wrought  the  deeper.  From  his  father  he  had  in- 
herited a  conscience  of  abnormal  sensibility ;  but  he  could  not 
inherit  the  religious  dogmas  by  means  of  which  his  father  had 
partly  deadened,  partly  distorted  his :  and  constant  pressure 
and  irritation  had  already  generated  a  great  soreness  of  surface. 
When  he  began  to  open  up,  it  was  after  a  sad  fashion  at 
first.  To  resume  my  simile  of  the  pimpernel — it  was  to  dis- 
close a  heart  in  which  the  glowing  purple  was  blanched  to  a 
sickly  violet.  What  happiness  he  had,  came  in  fits  and 
bursts,  and  passed  as  quickly,  leaving  him  depressed  and 
miserable.  He  was  always  either  wishing  to  be  happy,  or 
trying  to  be  sure  of  the  grounds  of  the  brief  happiness  he 
had.  He  allowed  the  natural  blessedness  of  his  years  hardly 
a  chance :  the  moment  its  lobes  appeared  above  ground,  he 
was  handling  them,  examining  them,  and  trying  to  pull  them 
open.  No  wonder  they  crept  underground  again !  It  may 
seem  hardly  credible  that  such  should  be  the  case  with  a  boy 
of  fifteen,  but  I  am  not  mistaken  in  my  diagnosis.  I  will  go 
a  little  further.  Gifted  with  the  keenest  perceptions,  and  a 
nature  unusually  responsive  to  the  feelings  of  others,  he  was 
born  to  be  an  artist.  But  he  was  content  neither  with  his 
own  suggestions,  nor  with  understanding  those  of  another ;  he 
must,  by  the  force  of  his  own  will,  generate  his  friend's  feeling 
in  himself,  not  perceiving  the  thing  impossible.  This  was  one 
point  at  which  we  touched,  and  which  went  far  to  enable  me 
to  understand  him.  The  original  in  him  was  thus  constantly 
repressed,  and  he  suffered  from  the  natural  consequences  of  re- 
pression. He  suffered  also  on  the  physical  side  from  a  ten- 
dency to  disease  of  the  lungs  inherited  from  his  mother. 


136  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

Mr.  Forest's  house  stood  high  on  the  Gtindelwald  side  of 
the  Wcngern  Alp,  under  a  bare  grassy  height  full  of  pasture 
both  summer  and  winter.  In  front  was  a  great  space,  half 
meadow,  half  common,  rather  poorly  covered  with  hill- 
grasses.  The  rock  was  near  the  surface,  and  in  places  came 
through,  when  the  grass  was  changed  for  lichens  and  mosses. 
Through  this  rocky  meadow,  now  roamed,  now  rushed,  now 
tumbled  one  of  those  Alpine  streams,  the  very  thought  of 
whose  ice-  born  plenitude  makes  me  happy  yet.  Its  banks 
were  not  abrupt  but  rounded  gently  in,  and  grassy  down  to 
the  water's  brink.  The  larger  torrents  of  winter  wore  the 
channel  wide,  and  the  sinking  of  the  water  in  summer  let  the 
grass  grow  within  it.  But,  peaceful  as  the  place  was,  and 
merry  with  the  constant  rush  of  this  busy  stream,  it  had,  even 
in  the  hottest  summer  day,  a  memory  of  the  winter  about  it, 
a  look  of  suppressed  desolation  ;  for  the  only  trees  upon  it 
were  a  score  of  straggling  pines — all  dead,  as  if  blasted  by 
lightning  or  smothered  by  snow.  Peiiiaps  they  were  the  last 
of  the  forest  in  that  part,  and  their  roots  had  reached  a 
stratum  where  they  could  not  live.  All  I  know  is,  that  there 
they  stood,  blasted  and  dead  every  one  of  them. 

Charley  could  never  bear  them,  and  even  disliked  the  place 
because  of  them.  His  father  was  one  whom  a  mote  in  his 
brother's  eye  repelled ;  the  son  suffered  tor  this  in  twenty  ways, 
one  of  which  was,  that  a  single  spot  in  the  landscape  was  to 
him  enough  to  destroy  the  loveliness  of  exquisite  surroundings. 

A  good  way  below  lay  the  valley  of  the  Grindelwald.  The 
Eiger  and  the  Matterhorn  were  both  within  sight.  If  a  man 
has  any  sense  of  the  infinite,  he  cannot  fail  to  be  rendered 
capable  of  higher  things  by  such  embodiments  of  the  high. 
Otherwise,  they  are  heaps  of  dirt,  to  be  scrambled  up  and 
conquered,  for  scrambling  and  conquering's  sake.  They  are 
but  warts,  Pelion  and  Ossa  and  all  of  them.  They  seemed  to 
oppress  Charley  at  first. 

"  Oh  Willie,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  "  if  I  could  but  be- 
lieve in  those  mountains,  how  happy  I  should  be!  But  I 
doubt,  I  doubt  they  are  but  rocks  and  snow." 


THE  ICE-CAVE.  137 

I  only  half  understood  liim.  I  am  afraid  I  never  did 
understand  him  more  than  half.  Later,  I  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this  was  not  the  fit  place  for  him ;  and  that  if  hia 
father  had  understood  him,  he  would  never  have  sent  him 
there. 

It  Was  some  time  before  Mr.  Forest  would  take  us  any  moun- 
tain ramble.  He  said  we  must  first  get  accustomed  to  the  air 
of  the  place,  else  the  precipices  would  turn  our  brains.  He 
allowed  us,  however,  to  range  within  certain  bounds. 

One  day  soon  after  our  arrival,  we  accompanied  one  of  our 
schoolfellows  down  to  the  valley  of  the  Grindelwald,  specially 
to  see  the  head  of  the  snake-glacier,  which  having  crept  thither 
can  creep  no  further.  Somebody  had  even  then  hollowed  out 
a  cave  in  it.  We  crossed  a  little  brook  which  issued  from  it 
constantly,  and  entered.  Charley  uttered  a  cry  of  dismay,  but 
I  was  too  much  delighted  at  the  moment  to  heed  him.  For 
the  whole  of  the  white  cavern  was  filled  with  blue  air,  so  blue 
that  I  saw  the  air  which  filled  it.  Perfectly  transparent,  it 
had  no  substance,  only  blueness,  which  deepened  and  deepened 
as  I  went  further  in.  All  down  the  smooth  white  walls  ever- 
more was  stealing  a  thin  veil  of  dissolution ;  while  here  and 
there  little  runnels  of  the  purest  water  w^ere  tumbling  in  tiny 
cataracts  from  top  to  bottom.  It  was  one  of  the  thousand 
birthplaces  of  streams,  ever  creeping  into  the  day  of  vision 
from  the  unlike  and  the  unknown,  unrolling  themselves  like 
the  fronds  of  a  fern  out  of  the  infinite  of  God.  Ice  was  all 
around,  hard  and  cold  and  dead  and  white ;  but  out  of  it  and 
away  went  the  water  babbling  and  singing  in  the  sunlight. 

"  O  Charley !"  I  exclaimed,  looking  round  in  my  transport 
for  sympathy.  It  was  now  my  turn  to  cry  out,  for  Charley's 
face  was  that  of  a  corpse.  The  brilliant  blue  of  the  cave 
made  us  look  to  each  other  most  ghastly  and  fearful. 

"Do  come  out,  Wilfrid,"  he  said;  "I  cannot  bear  it." 

I  put  my  arm  in  his,  and  we  walked  into  the  sunlight.  He 
drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  and  turned  to  me  with  an  attempt 
at  a  smile,  but  his  lip  quivered. 

"  It's  an  awful  place,  Wilfrid.     I  don't  like  it.    Don't  go  in 


138  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

again.  I  should  stand  waiting  to  see  you  come  out  in  a  wind* 
ing  sheet.  I  think  there  is  something  wrong  with  my  brain. 
That  blue  seems  to  have  got  into  it.  I  see  everything  horribly 
dead." 

On  the  way  back  he  started  several  times,  and  looked  round 
as  il'  with  involuntary  ai^prehension,  but  mastered  himself  with 
an  efibrt,  and  joined  again  in  the  conversation.  Before  we 
reached  home  he  was  much  fatigued,  and  complaining  of 
headache,  went  to  bed  immediately  on  our  arrival. 

We  slept  in  the  same  room.  When  I  went  up  at  the  usual 
hour,  he  was  awake. 

"Can't  you  sleep,  Charley?"  I  said. 

"I've  been  asleep  several  times,"  he  answered,  "but  I've  had 
such  a  horrible  dream  every  time!  We  were  all  corpses  that 
couldn't  get  to  sleep,  and  went  about  pawing  the  slimy  walls 
of  our  marble  sepulchre — so  cold  and  wet!  It  was  that  hor- 
rible ice-cave,  I  suppose.  But  then  you  know  that's  just  what 
it  is,  Wilfrid." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  said,  instinctively  turning 
from  the  subject,  for  the  glitter  of  his  black  eyes  looked  bode- 
ful. I  did  not  then  know  how  like  he  and  I  were,  or  how 
like  my  fate  might  have  been  to  his,  if,  instead  of  finding  at 
once  a  fit  food  for  my  fancy,  and  a  safety-valve  for  its  excess, 
in  those  old  romances,  I  had  had  my  regards  turned  inwards 
upon  myself,  before  I  could  understand  the  phenomena  there 
exhibited.  Certainly  I  too  should  have  been  thus  rendered 
miserable,  and  body  and  soul  would  have  mutually  preyed  on 
each  other. 

I  sought  to  change  the  subject.  I  could  never  talk  to  him 
about  his  father,  but  he  had  always  been  ready  to  speak  of  his 
mother  and  sister.  Now,  however,  I  could  not  rouse  him. 
"  Poor  mamma !"  was  all  the  response  he  made  to  some  admir- 
ing remark;  and  when  I  mentioned  his  sister  Mary,  he  only 
said,  "She's  a  good  girl,  our  Mary,"  and  turned  uneasily  to- 
wards the  wall.  I  went  to  bed.  He  lay  quiet,  and  I  fell 
asleep. 

When  I  woke  in  the  morning,  I  found  him  very  unwell.     I 


THE   ICE-CAVE.  139 

suppose  the  illness  had  been  coming  on  for  some  time.  He  was 
in  a  low  fever.  As  the  doctor  decla-red  it  not  infectious,  I  was 
allowed  to  nurse  him.  He  was  often  delirious  and  spoke  tho 
wildest  things.  Especially,  he  would  converse  with  the  Saviour 
after  the  strangest  fashion. 

He  lay  ill  for  some  weeks.  Mr.  Forest  would  not  allow  me 
to  sit  up  with  him  at  night,  but  I  was  always  by  his  bedside 
early  in  the  morning,  and  did  what  I  could  to  amuse  and  com- 
fort him  through  the  day.  When  at  length  he  began  to  grow 
better,  he  was  more  cheerful  than  I  had  known  him  hitherto ; 
but  he  remained  very  w^eak  for  some  time.  He  had  grown  a 
good  deal  during  his  illness,  and  indeed  never  looked  a  boy 
again. 


140  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE, 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

AMONG    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

One  summer  morning  we  all  got  up  very  early,  except  Char- 
ley, who  was  unfit  for  the  exertion,  to  have  a  ramble  in  the 
mountains,  and  see  the  sun  rise.     The  fresh,  friendly  air,  full 
of  promise,  greeting  us  the  moment  we  crossed  the  threshold  ; 
the  calm  light  which  without  visible  source  lay  dream-like  on 
the  hills ;  the  brighter  space  in  the  sky  whence  ere  long  the 
spring  of  glory  would  bui-st  forth  triumphant;  the  dull  white 
of  the  snow-peaks,  dwelling  so  awful  and  lonely  in  the  mid 
heavens,  as  if  nothing  should  ever   comfort  them   or  make 
them  acknowledge  the  valleys  below  ;  the  sense  of  adventure 
with  which  we  climbed  the  nearer  heights,  as  familiar  to  our 
feet  on  ordinary  days  as  the  stau*s  to  our  bedrooms ;  the  gradual 
disappearance  of  the  known  regions  behind  us,  and  the  dawn- 
ing sense  of  the  illimitable  and  awful,  folding  in  its  bosom  the 
homely  and   familiar — combined   to   produce   an   impression 
which   has  never  faded.     The  sun   rose   in   splendor,  as   if 
nothing  more  should  hide  in  the  darkness  forever;  and  yet  with 
the  light  came  a  fresh  sense  of  mystery,  for  now  that  which 
had  appeared  smooth  was  all  broken  and  mottled  with  shadows 
innumerable.     Again  and  again  I  found  myself  standing  still 
to  gaze  in  a  rapture  of  delight  which  I  can  only  recall,  not 
express ;  again  and  again  was  I  roused  by  the  voice  of  the  mas- 
ter in  front,  shouting  to  me  to  come  on,  and  warning  me  of  the 
danger  of  losing  sight  of  the  rest  of  the  company ;  and  again 
and  again  I  obeyed,  but  without  any  perception  of  the  peril. 

The  intention  was  to  cross  the  hills  into  the  valley  of  the 
Lauterbrunnen,  not  however  by  the  path  now  so  well  known, 
but  by  another  way,  hardly  a  path,  with  which  the  master  and 
some  of  the  boys  were  familiar  enough.     It  was  my  first  expe- 


AMONG   THE   MOUNTAINS.  141 

rience  of  anything  like  real  climbing.  As  we  passed  rapidly 
over  a  moorland  space,  broken  with  huge  knolls  and  solitary 
rocks,  something  hurt  my  foot,  and  taking  off  my  shoe,  I  found 
that  a  small  chiropodical  operation  was  necessary,  which  in- 
volved the  use  of  my  knife.  It  slipped,  and  cut  ray  foot,  and 
I  bound  the  wound  with  a  strip  from  my  pocket-handkerchief 
When  I  got  up,  I  found  that  my  companions  had  disappeared. 
This  gave  me  little  trouble  at  the  moment,  for  I  had  no  doubt 
of  speedily  overtaking  them ;  and  I  set  out  briskly  in  the 
direction,  as  I  supposed,  in  which  we  had  been  going.  But  I 
presume  that  instead  of  following  them,  I  began  at  once  to  in- 
crease the  distance  between  us.  At  all  events,  I  had  not  gone 
far  before  a  pang  of  fear  shot  through  me — the  first  awaking 
doubt.  I  called  louder — and  louder  yet ;  but  there  was  no 
response,  and  I  knew  I  was  alone. 

Invaded  by  sudden  despair,  I  sat  down,  and  for  a  moment 
did  not  even  think.  All  at  once  I  became  aware  of  the  abysses 
which  surrounded  the  throne  of  my  isolation.  Behind  me  the 
broken  ground  rose  to  an  unseen  height,  and  before  me  it 
sloped  gently  downwards,  without  a  break  to  the  eye,  yet  I  felt 
as  if,  should  I  make  one  wavering  movement,  I  must  fall  down 
one  of  the  frightful  precipices  which  Mr.  Forest  had  told  me, 
as  a  warning,  lay  all  about  us.  I  actually  clung  to  the  stone 
upon  which  I  sat,  although  I  could  not  have  been  in  more  ab- 
solute safety  for  the  moment  had  I  been  dreaming  in  bed.  The 
old  fear  had  returned  upon  me,  with  a  tenfold  feeling  of  reality 
behind  it.  I  presume  it  is  so  all  through  life:  it  is  not  what  is, 
but  what  may  be,  that  oftenest  blanches  the  cheek  and  para- 
lyzes the  limbs  ;  and  oftenest  gives  rise  to  that  sense  of  the  need 
of  a  God  which  we  are  told  nowadays  is  a  superstition,  and 
which  he  whom  we  call  the  Saviour  acknowledged  and  justified 
in  telling  us  to  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  inasmuch  as 
God  took  thought  for  it.  I  strove  to  master  my  dismay,  and 
forced  myself  to  get  up  and  run  about;  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  fear  had  withdrawn  into  the  background,  and  I  felt  no  long- 
er an  unseen  force  dragging  me  towards  a  frightful  gulf  But 
it  was  replaced  by  a  more  spiritual  horror.    The  sense  of  lone^ 


142  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

lincss  seized  upon  me,  and  the  first  sense  of  absolute  loneliness 
is  awful.  Independent  as  a  man  may  fancy  himself  in  the 
heart  of  a  world  of  men,  he  has  only  to  be  convinced  that 
there  is  neither  voice  nor  hearing,  to  know  that  the  face  from 
which  he  most  recoils  is  of  a  kind  essential  to  his  very  soul. 
Space  is  not  room ;  and  when  we  complain  of  the  overcrowd- 
ins:  of  our  fellows,  we  are  thankless  for  that  which  comforts  us 
the  most,  and  desire  its  absence  in  ignorance  of  our  deepest 
nature. 

Not  even  a  bird  broke  the  silence.  It  lay  upon  my  soul  as  the 
sky  and  the  sea  lay  upon  the  weary  eye  of  the  ancient  mariner. 
It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  convey  the  impression  of  my  misery. 
It  was  not  yet  the  fear  of  death,  or  of  hunger  or  thirst,  for  I 
had  as  yet  no  adequate  idea  of  the  vast  lonelinesses  that  lie  in 
a  mountain  land :  it  was  simply  the  being  alone,  with  no  ear 
to  hear  and  no  voice  to  answer  me — a  torture  to  which  the 
soul  is  liable  in  virtue  of  the  fact  that  it  was  not  made  to  be 
alone,  yea,  I  think,  I  hope,  never  can  be  alone ;  for  that  which 
could  be  fact  could  not  be  such  horror.  Essential  horror 
springs  from  an  idea  repugnant  to  the  nature  of  the  thinker, 
and  which  therefore  in  reality  could  not  be. 

My  agony  rose  and  rose  with  every  moment  of  silence.  But 
when  it  reached  its  height,  and  when,  to  save  myself  from 
bursting  into  tears,  I  threw  myself  on  the  ground,  and  began 
gnawing  at  the  plants  a,bout  me — then  first  came  help  :  I  had 
a  certain  experience,  as  the  Puritans  might  have  called  it.  I 
fear  to  build  any  definite  conclusion  upon  it,  from  the  dread 
of  fanaticism  and  the  danger  of  attributing  a  merely  physical 
eflfect  to  a  spiritual  cause.  But  are  matter  and  spirit  so  far 
asunder?  It  is  my  will  moves  my  arm,  whatever  first  moves 
my  will.  Besides,  I  do  not  understand  how,  except  another 
influence  came  into  operation,  the  extreme  of  misery  and 
depression  should  work  round  into  such  a  change  as  I  have 
to  record. 

But  I  do  not  know  how  to  describe  the  change.  The  silence 
was  crushing,  or  rather  sucking  my  life  out  of  me — up  into 
its  own  empty  gulfs.     The  horror  of  the  great  stillness  was 


AMONG   THE   MOUNTAINS.  143 

growing  deathly,  when  all  at  once  I  rose  to  my  feet  with  a 
sense  of  power  and  confidence  I  had  never  had  before.  It  was 
as  if  something  divine  within  me  awoke  to  outface  the  desola- 
tion. I  felt  that  it  was  time  to  act,  and  that  I  could  act. 
There  is  no  cure  for  terror  like  action :  in  a  few  moments  I 
could  have  approached  the  verge  of  any  precipice — at  least  with- 
out abject  fear.  The  silence — no  longer  a  horrible  vacancy — 
appeared  to  tremble  with  unuttered  thinkings.  The  manhood 
within  me  was  alive  and  awake.  I  could  not  recognize  a  single 
landmark,  or  discover  the  least  vestige  of  a  path.  I  knew 
upon  which  hand  the  sun  was  when  we  started  ;  and  took  my 
way  with  the  sun  on  the  other  side.  But  a  cloud  had  already 
come  over  him. 

I  had  not  gone  far  before  I  saw  in  front  of  me,  on  the  other 
side  of  a  little  hillock,  something  like  the  pale  blue  gray  fog 
that  broods  over  a  mountain  lake.  I  ascended  the  hillock, 
and  started  back  with  a  cry  of  dismay :  I  was  on  the  very 
verge  of  an  awful  gulf.  When  I  think  of  it,  I  marvel  yet 
that  I  did  not  lose  my  self-possession  altogether.  I  only  turned 
and  strode  in  the  other  direction — the  faster  for  the  fear.  But 
I  dared  not  run,  for  I  was  haunted  by  precipices.  Over 
every  height,  every  mound,  one  might  be  lying — a  trap  for  my 
destruction.  I  no  longer  looked  out  in  the  hope  of  recogni- 
zing some  feature  of  the  country ;  I  could  only  regard  the 
ground  before  me,  lest  at  any  step  I  might  come  upon  an 
abyss. 

I  had  not  walked  far  before  the  air  began  to  grow  dark.  I 
glanced  again  at  the  sun.  The  clouds  had  gathered  thick 
about  him.  Suddenly  a  mountain  wind  blew  cold  in  my  face. 
I  never  yet  can  read  that  sonnet  of  Shakspeare's — 

"  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 

Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 

With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide. 

Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace," — 


144  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

without  recalling  the  gladness  when  I  started  from  home,  and 
the  misery  that  so  soon  followed.  But  my  new  spirits  did  not 
yet  give  way.  I  trudged  on.  The  wind  increased,  and  in  it 
came  by  and  by  the  trailing  skirts  of  a  cloud.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments more  I  was  wrapped  in  a  mist.  It  was  as  if  the  gulf 
from  which  I  had  just  escaped  had  sent  up  its  indwelling 
demon  of  fog  to  follow  and  overtake  me.  I  dared  hardly  go 
on  even  with  the  greatest  circumspection.  As  I  grew  colder, 
my  courage  declined.  The  mist  wetted  my  face  and  sank 
through  my  clothes,  and  I  began  to  feel  very  wretched.  I  sat 
down,  not  merely  from  dread  of  the  precipices,  but  to  reserve 
my  walking  powers  when  the  mist  should  withdraw.  I  began 
to  shiver,  and  was  getting  utterly  hopeless  and  miserable  when 
the  fog  lifted  a  little,  and  I  saw  what  seemed  a  great  rock  near 
me.  I  crept  towards  it.  Almost  suddenly  it  dwindled,  and 
I  found  but  a  stone,  yet  one  large  enough  to  afford  me  some 
shelter.  I  went  to  the  leeward  side  of  it,  and  nestled  at  its 
foot.  The  mist  again  sank  and  the  wind  blew  stronger,  but  I 
was  in  comparative  comfort,  partly  because  my  imagination 
was  wearied.     I  fell  fast  asleep. 

I  awoke  stiff  with  cold.  Rain  was  falling  in  torrents,  and 
I  was  wet  to  the  skin ;  but  the  mist  was  much  thinner,  and  I 
could  see  a  good  way.  For  a  while  I  was  very  heartless,  what 
with  the  stiffness,  and  the  fear  of  having  to  spend  the  night  on 
the  mountains.  I  was  hungry  too,  not  with  the  appetite  of 
desire  but  of  need.  The  worst  was  that  I  had  no  idea  in  what 
direction  I  ought  to  go.  Downwards  lay  precipices — upwards 
lay  the  surer  loneliness.  I  knelt  and  prayed  the  God  Avho 
dwelt  in  the  silence  to  help  me;  then  strode  away  I  knew  not 
whither — up  the  hill,  in  the  faint  hope  of  discovering  some 
sign  to  direct  me.  As  I  climbed,  the  hill  rose.  When  I  sur- 
mounted what  had  seemed  the  highest  point,  away  beyond 
rose  another.  But  the  slopes  were  not  over  steep,  and  I  was 
able  to  get  on  pretty  fast.  The  wind  being  behind  me,  I 
hoped  for  some  shelter  over  the  highest  brow,  but  that,  for 
anything  I  knew,  might  be  miles  away  in  the  regions  of  ice 
and  sno'w. 


«  •  <   » 

r 

•<  r  or 


AMONG   THE   MOUNTAINS.  145 

I  had  been  walking  I  should  think  about  an  hour  when  the 
mist  broke  away  from  around  me,  and  the  sun,  in  the  midst 
of  clouds  of  dull  orange  and  gold,  shone  out  upon  the  wet 
hill.  It  was  like  a  promise  of  safety,  and  woke  in  me  courage 
to  climb  the  steep  and  crumblmg  slope  which  now  lay  before 
me.  But  the  fear  returned.  People  had  died  in  the  moun- 
tains of  hunger,  and  I  began  to  make  up  my  mind  to  meet  the 
worst.  I  had  not  learned  that  the  approach  of  any  fate  is  just 
the  preparation  for  that  fate.  I  troubled  myself  with  the  care 
of  that  which  was  not  impending  over  me.  I  tried  to  con- 
template the  death-struggle  with  equanimity,  but  could  not. 
Had  I  been  wearier  and  fainter,  it  would  have  appeared  less 
dreadful.  Then,  in  the  horror  of  the  slow  death  of  hunger, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  that  which  had  been  the  special 
horror  of  my  childish  dreams  returned  upon  me  changed  into 
a  thought  of  comfort :  I  could,  ere  my  strength  failed  me 
utterly,  seek  the  verge  of  a  precipice,  lie  down  there,  and 
when  the  suffering  grew  strong  enough  to  give  me  courage, 
roll   myself  over  the  edge,  and  cut  short  the  agony. 

At  length  I  gained  the  brow  of  the  height,  and  at  last  the 
ground  sank  beyond.  There  was  no  precipice  to  terrify,  only 
a  somewhat  steep  descent  into  a  valley  large  and  wide.  But 
what  a  vision  arose  on  the  opposite  side  of  that  valley  ! — an 
upright  wilderness  of  rocks,  slopes,  precipices,  snow,  glaciers, 
avalanches  ?  Weary  and  faint  as  I  was,  I  was  filled  with  a 
glorious  awe,  the  terror  of  which  was  the  opposite  of  fear,  for 
it  lifted  instead  of  debasing  the  soul.  Not  a  pine-tree  softened 
the  haggard  waste;  not  a  single  stray  sheep  of  the  wind's  flock 
drew  one  trail  of  its  thin-drawn  wool  behind  it ;  all  was  hard 
and  bare.  The  glaciers  lay  like  the  skins  of  cruel  beasts, 
with  the  green  veins  yet  visible,  nailed  to  the  rocks  to  harden 
in  the  sun;  and  the  little  streams  which  ran  down  from  their 
claws  looked  like  the  knife-blades  they  are,  keen  and  hard  and 
shining,  sawing  away  at  the  bones  of  the  old  mountains.  But 
although  the  mountain  looked  so  silent,  there  came  from  it 
every  now  and  then  a  thundering  sound.  At  first  I  could  not 
think  what  it  was ;  but  gazing  at  its  surface  more  steadily, 
10 


146  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

upon  the  face  of  a  slope,  I  caught  sight  of  what  seemed  a 
larger  stream  tlian  any  of  the  rest ;  but  it  soon  ceased,  and 
then  came  the  slow  thunder  of  its  fall :  it  was  a  stream,  but 
a  solid  one — an  avalanche.  Away  up  in  the  air  the  huge 
snow-summit  glittered  in  the  light  of  the  afternoon  sun.  I 
wa^  gazing  on  the  Maiden  in  one  of  her  most  savage  moods — 
or,  to  speak  prose,  I  was  regarding  one  of  the  wildest  aspects 
of  the  many-sided  Jungfrau. 

Half  way  down  the  hill,  almost  right  under  my  feet,  rose  a 
slender  column  of  smoke,  I  could  not  see  whence.  I  hastened 
towards  it,  feeling  as  strong  as  when  I  started  in  the  morning. 
I  zig-zagged  down  the  slojDe,  for  it  was  steep  and  slippery  with 
grass,  and  arrived  at  length  at  a  good-sized  cottage,  which 
faced  the  Jungfrau.  It  was  built  of  great  logs  laid  hori- 
zontally one  above  the  other,  all  with  notches  half  through 
near  the  end,  by  which  notches,  lying  into  each  other,  the 
sides  of  the  house  were  held  together  at  the  corners.  I  soon 
saw  it  must  be  a  sort  of  roadside  inn.  There  was  no  one 
about  the  place;  but  passing  through  a  dark  vestibule,  in 
which  were  stores  of  fodder  and  various  utensils,  I  came  to  a 
room  in  which  sat  a  mother  and  her  daughter — the  former 
spinning,  the  latter  making  lace  on  a  pillow.  In  at  the  win- 
dows looked  the  great  Jungfrau.  The  room  was  lined  with 
planks ;  the  floor  was  boarded  ;  the  ceiling  too  was  of  boards 
— pine-wood  all  around. 

The  women  rose  when  I  entered.  I  knew  enough  of  Ger- 
man to  make  them  understand  my  story,  and  had  learned 
enough  of  their  patois  to  understand  them  a  little  in  return. 
They  looked  concerned,  and  the  older  woman,  passing  her 
hands  over  my  jacket,  turned  to  her  daughter  and  commenced 
a  talk  much  too  rapid  and  no  doubt  idiomatic  for  me  to  fol- 
low. It  was  in  the  end  mingled  with  much  laughter,  evi- 
dently at  some  proposal  of  the  mother.  Then  the  daughter 
left  the  room,  and  the  mother  began  to  heap  wood  on  the  fire. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  daughter  returned,  still  laughing,  with 
some  garments,  which  the  mother  took  from  her.  I  was 
watching  everything  from  a  corner  of  the  hearth,  where  I  had 


AMONG   THE   MOUNTAINS.  147 

seated  myself  wearily.  The  mother  came  up  to  me,  and 
without  speaking,  put  something  over  my  head,  which  I  found 
to  be  a  short  petticoat  such  as  the  women  wore ;  then  told  me 
I  must  take  off  my  clothes  and  have  them  dried  at  the  fire. 
She  laid  other  garments  on  a  chair  beside  me. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  put  them  on,"  I  objected. 

"  Put  on  as  many  as  you  can,"  she  said  laughing — "  and  I 
will  help  you  with  the  rest." 

I  looked  about.  There  was  a  great  press  in  the  room.  I 
went  behind  it  and  pulled  off  my  clothes ;  and  having 
managed  to  put  on  some  of  the  girl's  garments,  issued  from 
my  concealment.  The  kindly  laughter  was  renewed,  and 
mother  and  daughter  busied  themselves  in  arranging  my  ap- 
parel, evidently  seeking  to  make  the  best  of  me  as  a  girl,*  an 
attempt  favored  by  my  pale  face.  When  I  seemed  to  myself 
completely  arrayed,  the  girl  said  to  her  mother  what  I  took  to 
mean  "  Let  us  finish  what  we  have  begun ;"  and  leaving  the 
room,  returned  presently  with  the  velvet  collar  embroidered 
with  silver  and  the  pendent  chains  which  the  women  of  most 
of  the  cantons  wear,  and  put  it  on  me,  hooking  the  chains  and 
leaving  them  festooned  under  my  arms.  The  mother  was 
spreading  out  my  clothes  before  the  fire  to  dry. 

Neither  was  pretty,  but  both  looked  womanly  and  good. 
The  daughter  had  the  attraction  of  youth  and  bright  eyes ; 
the  mother,  of  good-mil  and  experience ;  but  both  were 
sallow,  and  the  mother  very  wrinkled  for  what  seemed  her 
years. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  summoning  my  German,  "  you've  not  yet 
finished  your  work.  Make  my  short  hair  as  like  your  long 
hair  as  you  can,  and  then  I  shall  be  a  Swiss  girl." 

I  was  but  a  boy,  and  had  no  scruple  concerning  a  bit  of 
fun  of  which  I  might  have  been  ashamed  a  few  years  later. 
The  girl  took  a  comb  from  her  own  hair  and  arranged  mine. 
When  she  had  finished, 

"  One  girl  may  kiss  another,"  I  said ;  and  doubtless  she  un- 
derstood me,  for  she  returned  my  kiss  with  a  fresh  laugh.  I 
sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  as  its  warmth  crept  into  my  limbs  I 


148  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

rejoiced  over  comforts  which  yesterday  had  been  a  matter  of 
course. 

Meantime  they  were  busy  getting  me  something  to  eat. 
Just  as  they  were  setting  it  on  the  table,  however,  a  loud  call 
outside  took  them  both  away.  In  a  few  moments  two  other 
guests  entered,  and  then  first  I  found  myself  ashamed  of  my 
costume.  With  them  the  mother  re-entered,  calling  behind 
her,  "  There's  nobody  at  home ;  you  must  put  the  horses  up 
yourself,  Annel."  Then  she  moved  the  little  table  towards 
me,  and  proceeded  to  set  out  the  meal. 

"  Ah !  I  see  you  have  got  something  to  eat,"  said  one  of  the 
strangers,  in  a  voice  I  fancied  I  had  heard  before. 

"  Will  you  please  to  share  it?"  returned  the  woman,  moving 
the  table  again  towards  the  middle  of  the  room. 

I  thought  with  myself  that,  if  I  kept  silent,  no  one  could 
tell  I  was  not  a  girl ;  and,  the  table  being  finally  adjusted,  I 
moved  my  seat  towards  it.  Meantime  the  man  was  helping 
his  companion  to  take  oflf  her  outer  garments,  and  put  them 
before  the  fire.  I  saw  the  face  of  neither  until  they  ap- 
proached the  table  and  sat  down.  Great  was  my  surprise  to 
discover  that  the  man  was  the  same  I  had  met  in  the  wood  on 
my  way  to  Moldwarp  Hall,  and  that  the  girl  was  Clara — a 
good  deal  grown — in  fact  looking  almost  a  woman.  From 
after  facts,  the  meeting  became  less  marvellous  in  my  eyes 
than  it  then  appeared. 

I  felt  myself  in  an  awkward  position — indeed  I  felt  almost 
guilty,  although  any  notion  of  having  the  advantage  of  them 
never  entered  my  head.  I  was  more  than  half  inclined  to 
run  out  and  help  Annel  with  the  horses,  but  I  was  very 
hungry,  and  not  at  all  willing  to  postpone  my  meal,  simple  as 
it  w^as — bread  and  butter,  eggs,  cheese,  milk,  and  a  bottle  of 
the  stronger  wine  of  the  country,  tasting  like  a  coarse  sherry. 
The  two — father  and  daughter,  evidently — talked  about  their 
journey,  and  hoped  they  should  reach  the  Grindelwald 
without  more  rain. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  it's  somewhere  not  far 
from  here  young  Cumbcrmede  is  at   school.    I   knew   Mr, 


AMONG  THE   MOUNTAINS.  149 

Forest  well  enough — used  to  know  him,  at  least.    We  may  as 
well  call  upon  him." 

"  Cumbermede  " — said  Clara  ;  "  who  is  he  ?" 

"  A  nephew  of  Mrs.  Wilson's — no,  not  nephew — second  or 
third  cousin — or  something  of  the  sort,  I  believe.  Didn't 
somebody  tell  me  you  met  him  at  the  Hall  one  day  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  boy— Wilfrid.  Yes  ;  I  told  you  myself.  Don't 
you  remember  what  a  bit  of  fun  we  had  the  night  of  the  ball  ? 
We  were  shut  out  on  the  leads,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  you  did  tell  me.  What  sort  of  a  boy  is  he?" 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  Much  like  other  boys.  I  did  think 
he  was  a  coward  at  first,  but  he  showed  some  pluck  at  last.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  turns  out  a  good  sort  of  fellow.  We 
were  in  a  fix." 

"  You're  a  terrible  madcap,  Clara !  If  you  don't  settle  down 
as  you  grow,  you'll  be  getting  yourself  into  worse  scrapes." 

"Not  with  you  to  look  after  me,  papa  dear,"  answered 
Clara,  smiling.  "It  was  the  fiin  of  cheating  old  Goody 
Wilson,  you  know!" 

Her  father  grinned  with  his  whole  mouthful  of  teeth,  and 
looked  at  her  with  amusement — almost  sympathetic  roguery, 
which  she  evidently  appreciated,  for  she  laughed  heartily. 

Meantime  I  was  feeling  very  uncomfortable.  Something 
within  told  me  I  had  no  right  to  overhear  remarks  about 
myself;  and,  in  my  slow  way,  I  was  meditating  how  to  get 
out  of  the  scrape. 

"  What  a  nice-looking  girl  that  is !"  said  Clara,  without 
lifting  her  eyes  from  her  plate — "  I  mean  for  a  Swiss,  you 
know.  But  I  do  like  the  dress.  I  wish  you  would  buy  me  a 
collar  and  chains  like  those,  papa." 

"  Always  wanting  to  get  something  out  of  your  old  dad, 
Clara !  Just  like  the  rest  of  you ! — always  wanting  something 
—eh?" 

"  No,  papa ;  it's  you  gentlemen  always  want  to  keep  every- 
thing for  yourselves.     We  only  want  you  to  share." 

"Well,  you  shall  have  the  collar,  and  I  shall  have  the 
chains.     Will  that  do?" 


150  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  papa,"  she  returned,  nodding  her  head. 
"  Meantime,  hadn't  you  better  give  me  your  diamond  pin  ?  It 
wouhi  fasten  this  troublesome  collar  so  nicely!" 

"There,  child!"  he  answered,  proceeding  to  take  it  from  his 
shirt.     "  Anything  else  ?" 

"  No,  no,  papa  dear.  I  didn't  want  it.  I  expected  you, 
like  everybody  else,  to  decline  carrying  out  your  professed 
principles." 

"  What  a  nice  girl  she  is,"  I  thought,  "  after  all !" 

"  My  love,"  said  her  father,  "  you  will  know  some  day  that 
I  would  do  more  for  you  even  than  give  you  my  pet  diamond. 
If  you  are  a  good  girl,  and  do  as  I  tell  you,  there  will  be 
grander  things  than  diamond  pins  in  store  for  you.  But  you 
may  have  this  if  you  like." 

He  looked  fondly  at  her  as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  no,  papa! — not  now  at  least.  I  should  not  know  what 
to  do  with  it.     I  should  be  sure  to  lose  it." 

If  my  clothes  had  been  dry,  I  would  have  slipped  away,  put 
them  on,  and  appeared  in  my  proper  guise.  As  it  was,  I  was 
getting  more  and  more  miserable — ashamed  of  revealing  who 
I  was,  and  ashamed  of  hearing  what  the  speakers  supposed  I 
did  not  understand.  I  sat  on  irresolute.  In  a  little  while, 
however,  either  the  wine  having  got  into  my  head,  or  the  food 
and  warmth  having  restored  my  courage,  I  began  to  contem- 
plate the  bolder  stroke  of  suddenly  revealing  myself  by  some 
unexpected  remark.  They  went  on  talking  about  the  country, 
and  the  road  they  had  come. 

"  But  we  have  hardly  seen  anything  worth  calling  a  preci- 
pice," said  Clara. 

"  You'll  see  hundreds  of  them  if  you  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow," said  her  father. 

"  Oh !  but  I  don't  mean  that,"  she  returned.  "  It's  nothing 
to  look  at  them  like  that.  I  mean  from  the  top  of  them — to 
look  down  you  know." 

"Like  from  the  flying  buttress  at  Moldwarp  Hall,  Clara?" 
I  said. 

The  moment  I  began  to  speak,  they  began  to  stare.    Clara's 


AMOi^G    THE   MOUNTAINS.  151 

hand  was  arrested  on  its  way  towards  the  bread,  and  her 
father's  wine  glass  hung  suspended  between  the  table  and  his 
lips.     I  laughed. 

"  By  Jove ! "  said  Mr.  Coningham — and  added  nothing,  for 
amazement,  but  looked  uneasily  at  his  daughter,  as  if  asking 
whether  they  had  not  said  something  awkward  about  me. 

"  It's  Wilfrid  !  "  exclaimed  Clara,  in  the  tone  of  one  talking 
in  her  sleep.    Then  she  laid  down  her  knife  and  laughed  aloud. 

"  What  a  guy  you  are  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Who  would  have  thought  of  finding  you  in  a  Swiss  girl  ? 
Really,  it  was  too  bad  of  you  to  sit  there  and  let  us  go  on  as 
we  did.  I  do  believe  we  were  talking  about  your  precious 
self !     At  least  papa  was." 

Again  her  merry  laugh  rang  out.  She  could  not  have  taken 
a  better  way  of  relieving  us. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  I  said ;  "  but  I  felt  so  awkward  in  this 
costume  that  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  speak  before.  I  tried 
very  hard." 

"  Poor  boy ! "  she  returned,  rather  more  mockingly  than 
I  liked,  her  violets  swimming  in  the  dews  of  laughter. 

By  this  time  Mr.  Coningham  had  apparently  recovered  his 
self-possession.  I  say  apparently,  for  I  doubt  if  he  had  ever 
lost  it.  He  had  only,  I  think,  been  running  over  their  talk 
in  his  mind  to  see  if  he  had  said  anything  unpleasant,  and 
now,  reassured,  he  stretched  his  hand  across  the  table. 

"  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  he  interposed,  "  We  owe  you 
an  apology  rather.  I  am  sure  we  can't  have  said  anything 
we  should  mind  you  hearing  ;  but " 

"  Oh  ! "  I  interrupted,  "  You  have  told  me  nothing  I  did 
not  know  already,  except  that  Mrs.  Wilson  was  a  relation,  of 
which  I  was  quite  ignorant." 

"  It  is  true  enough  though." 

"  What  relation  is  she,  then  ?" 

"  I  think,  when  I  gather  my  recollections  of  the  matter — 
I  think  she  was  first  cousin  to  your  mother— perhaps  it  waa 
only  second  cousin." 

"  Why  shouldn't  she  have  told  me  so,  then  ?  " 


152  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  She  must  explain  that  hei*self.  /cannot  account  for  that. 
It  is  very  extraordinary." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  so  well  about  me  sir,  if  you  don't 
mind  saying?" 

"  Oh  I  I  am  an  old  friend  of  the  family.  I  knew  your 
father  better  than  your  uncle,  though.  Your  uncle  is  not  over 
friendly,  you  see." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that." 

"  No  occasion  at  all.  I  suppose  he  doesn't  like  me.  I  fancy, 
being  a  Methodist " 

"  My  uncle  is  not  a  Methodist,  I  assure  you.  He  goes  to 
the  parish  church  regularly. 

"  Oh !  it's  all  one.  I  only  meant  to  say  that  being  a  man 
of  somewhat  peculiar  notions,  I  suppose  he  did  not  approve  of 
my  profession.  Your  good  people  are  just  as  ready,  however, 
to  call  in  the  lawyer  as  others  when  they  fancy  their  rights 
invaded.  Ha  !  ha  !  But  no  one  has  a  right  to  complain  of 
another,  because  he  doesn't  choose  to  like  him.  Besides,  it 
brings  grist  to  the  mill.  If  everybody  liked  everybody,  what 
would  become  of  the  lawsuits  ?  And  that  would  unsuit  us — 
wouldn't  it,  Clara  ? " 

"  You  know,  papa  dear,  what  mamma  would  say  ?  " 

"  But  she  ain't  here  you  know." 

"  But  /  am,  papa ;  and  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  shop," 
said  Clara,  coaxingly. 

"  Very  well ;  we  won't,  then.  But  I  was  only  explaining  to  Mr. 
Cumbermede  how  I  supposed  it  was  that  his  uncle  did  not  like 
me.    There  was  no  offence  in  that,  I  hope,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  answered.  "  I  am  the  only  offender. 
But  I  was  innocent  enough  so  far  as  intention  goes.  I  came 
in  drenched  and  cold,  and  the  good  people  here  amused  them- 
selves dressing  me  like  a  girl.  It  is  quite  time  I  were  getting 
home  now.  Mr.  Forest  will  be  in  a  way  about  me.  So  will 
Charley  Osborne." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Coningham,  "  I  remember  hearing 
you  were  at  school  together  somewhere  in  this  quarter.  But 
tell  us  all  about  it.     Did  you  lose  your  way  ?" 


AMONG   THE   MOUNTAINS.  153 

I  told  them  my  story.  Even  Clara  looked  grave  when  I 
came  to  the  incident  of  finding  myself  on  the  verge  of  the 
precipice. 

"  Thank  God,  my  boy !"  said  Mr.  Coningham,  kindly. 
"  You  have  had  a  narrow  escape.  I  lost  myself  once  in  the 
Cumberland  hills,  and  hardly  got  off  with  my  life.  Here  it 
is  a  chance  you  were  ever  seen  again,  alive  or  dead.  I 
wonder  you're  not  knocked  up." 

I  was,  however,  more  so  than  I  knew. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  get  home  ?"    he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  any  way  but  walking,"  I  answered. 

"  Are  you  far  from  home  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  dare  say  the  people  here  will  be  able  to 
tell  me.  But  I  think  you  said  you  were  going  down  into  the 
Grindelwald.  I  shall  know  where  I  am  there.  Perhaps  you 
will  let  me  walk  with  you.  Horses  can't  go  very  fast  along 
these  roads." 

"  You  shall  have  my  horse,  my  boy." 

"  No.     I  couldn't  think  of  that." 

"  You  must.  I  haven't  been  wandering  all  day  like  you. 
You  can  ride,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  pretty  well." 

"  Then  you  shall  ride  with  Clara,  and  I'll  w^alk  -with  the 
guide.     I  shall  go  and  see  after  the  horses  presently." 

It  was  indeed  a  delightful  close  to  a  dreadful  day.  We  sat 
and  chatted  a  while,  and  then  Clara  and  I  went  out  to  look 
at  the  Jungfrau.  She  told  me  they  had  left  her  mother  at 
Interlaken,  and  had  been  wandering  about  the  Bernese  Alps 
for  nearly  a  week. 

"  I  can't  think  what  should  have  put  it  in  papa's  head,"  she 
added ;  "  for  he  does  not  care  much  for  scenery.  I  fancy  he 
wants  to  make  the  most  of  poor  me,  and  so  takes  me  tlie 
grand  tour.  He  wanted  to  come  without  mamma,  but  she 
said  we  were  not  to  be  trusted  alone.  She  had  to  give  in 
when  we  took  to  horseback,  though." 

It  was  getting  late,  and  Mr.  Coningham  came  out  to  find  us. 

"  It  is  quite  time  we  were  going,"  he  said.     "  In  fact  we  are 


154  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

too  late  now.  The  horses  are  ready,  and  your  clothes  are 
dry,  Mr.  Cumbermede.     I  have  felt  them  all  over." 

"  How  kmd  of  you,  sir  !"    I  said. 

"  Nonsens'3.  Why  should  any  one  want  another  to  get  his 
death  of  cold  ?  If  you  are  to  keep  alive,  it's  better  to  keep 
well  as  long  as  ever  you  can.  Make  haste,  though,  and 
change  your  clothes." 

I  hurried  away,  followed  by  Clara's  merry  laugh  at  my 
clumsy  gait.  In  a  few  moments  I  was  ready.  Mr.  Coning- 
ham  had  settled  my  bill  for  me.  Mother  and  daughter  gave 
me  a  kind  farewell,  and  I  exhausted  my  German  in  vain 
attempts  to  let  them  know  how  grateful  I  was  for  their  good- 
ness. There  was  not  much  time,  however,  to  spend  even  on 
gratitude.  The  sun  was  nearly  down,  and  I  could  see  Clara 
mounted  and  waiting  for  me  before  the  window.  I  found 
Mr.  Coningham  rather  impatient. 

"  Come  along,  Mr.  Cumbermede ;  we  must  be  off,"  he  said. 
"  Get  up  there." 

"  You  have  grown,  though,  after  all,"  said  Clara.  "  I 
thought  it  might  be  only  the  petticoats  that  made  you  look 
so  tall." 

I  got  on  the  horse  which  the  guide,  a  half-witted  fellow 
from  the  next  valley,  was  holding  for  me,  and  we  set  out. 
The  guide  walked  beside  my  horse,  and  Mr.  Coningham 
beside  Clara's.  The  road  was  level  for  a  little  way,  but  it 
soon  turned  up  on  the  hill  where  I  had  been  wandering,  and 
went  along  the  steep  side  of  it. 

"  Will  this  do  for  a  precipice,  Clara  ?"  said  her  father. 

"  Oh  dear !  no,"  she  answered ;  "  it's  not  worth  the  name. 
It  actually  slopes  outward." 

Before  we  got  down  to  the  next  level  stretch  it  began  again 
to  rain.  A  mist  came  on,  and  we  could  see  but  a  little  "way 
before  us.  Through  the  mist  came  the  sound  of  the  bells  of 
the  cattle  upon  the  hill.  Our  guide  trudged  carefully  but 
boldly  on.  He  seemed  to  know  every  step  of  the  way. 
Clara  was  very  cool,  her  father  a  little  anxious,  and  very 
attentive  to  his  daughter,  who  received  his  help  with  a  never- 


AMONG   THE   MOUNTAINS.  155 

failing  merry  gratitude,  making  light  of  all  annoyances.  At 
length  we  came  down  upon  the  better  road,  and  traveled  on 
with  more  comfort. 

"Look,  Clara!"  I  said— "will  that  do?" 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  turning  her  head  in  the  direction 
in  Avhich  I  pointed. 

On  our  right,  through  the  veil,  half  of  rain,  half  of  gauzy 
mist,  which  filled  the  air,  arose  a  precipice  indeed — the  whole 
bulk  it  was  of  the  Eiger  mountain,  which  the  mist  brought  so 
near  that  it  seemed  literally  to  overhang  the  road.  Clara 
looked  up  for  a  moment,  but  betrayed  no  sign  of  aw^e. 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  Avill  do,"  she  said. 

" Though  you  are  only  at  the  foot  of  it?"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes ;  though  I  am  only  at  the  foot  of  it,"  she  repeated. 

"  What  does  it  remind  you  of?"  I  asked. 

"  Nothing.  I  never  saw  anything  it  could  remind  me  of," 
she  answered. 

"  Nor  read  anything?" 

"  Not  that  I  remember." 

"  It  reminds  me  of  Mount  Sinai  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
You  remember  Christian  was  afraid  because  the  side  of  it 
which  was  next  the  wayside  did  hang  so  much  over  that  he 
thought  it  would  fall  on  his  head." 

"  I  never  read  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  she  returned  in  a 
careless  if  not  contemptuous  tone. 

"  Didn't  you  ?     Oh,  you  would  like  it  so  much  !" 

"  I  don't  think  I  should.     I  don't  like  religious  books." 

"  But  that  is  such  a  good  story !" 

"  Oh !  it's  all  a  trap — sugar  on  the  outside  of  a  pill !  The 
Bting's  in  the  tail  of  it.     They're  all  like  that,     /know them." 

This  silenced  me,  and  for  a  while  we  went  on  without 
speaking. 

The  rain  ceased  ;  the  mist  cleared  a  little ;  and  I  began  to 
think  I  saw  some  landmarks  I  knew.  A  moment  more,  and 
I  perfectly  understood  where  we  were. 

"  I'm  all  right  now,  sir,"  I  said  to  Mr.  Coningham.  "  I  can 
find  my  way  from  here." 


156  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

As  I  spoke  I  pulled  up  and  proceeded  to  dismount. 

"  Sit  still,"  he  said.  "  We  cannot  do  better  than  ride  on  to 
Mr.  Forest's.  I  don't  know  him  much,  but  I  have  met  him, 
and  in  a  strange  country  all  are  friends.  I  dare  say  he  will 
take  us  in  for  the  night.     Do  you  think  he  could  house  us  ?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  For  that  matter,  the  boys  could 
crowd  a  little." 

"Is  it  far  from  here?" 

"  Not  above  two  miles,  I  think." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  the  way  ?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Then  you  take  the  lead." 

I  did  so.  He  spoke  to  the  guide,  and  Clara  and  I  rode  on 
in  front. 

"  You  and  I  seem  destined  to  have  adventures  together, 
Clara,"  I  said. 

"  It  seems  so.  But  this  is  not  so  much  of  an  adventure  as 
that  night  on  the  leads,"  she  answered. 

"  You  would  not  have  thought  so  if  you  had  been  with  me 
in  the  morning." 

"  Were  you  very  much  frightened  ?" 

"  I  was.     And  then  to  think  of  finding  you  !" 

"  It  was  funny,  certainly." 

When  we  reached  the  house  there  was  great  jubilation  over 
me,  but  Mr.  Forest  himself  was  very  serious.  He  had  not 
been  back  more  than  half  an  hour,  and  was  just  getting  ready 
to  set  out  again,  accompanied  by  men  from  the  village  below. 
Most  of  the  boys  were  quite  knocked  up,  for  they  had  been 
looking  for  me  ever  since  they  missed  me.  Charley  was  in  a 
dreadful  way.  When  he  saw  me  he  burst  into  tears,  and 
declared  he  would  never  let  me  out  of  his  sight  again.  But 
if  he  had  been  with  me  it  would  have  been  death  to  both  of 
us :  I  could  never  have  got  him  over  the  ground. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Forest  received  their  visitors  with  the  great- 
est cordiality,  and  invited  them  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with 
them,  to  which,  after  some  deliberation,  Mr.  Coningham 
agreed. 


AGAIN  THE  ICE-CAVE.  157 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AGAIN  THE  ICE-CAVE. 

The  next  morning  he  begged  a  holiday  for  me  and  Charley, 
of  whose  family  he  knew  something,  although  he  was  not 
acquainted  with  them.  I  was  a  little  disappointed  at 
Charley's  being  included  in  the  request,  not  in  the  least  from 
jealousy,  but  because  I  had  set  my  heart  on  taking  Clara  to 
the  cave  in  the  ice,  which  I  knew  Charley  would  not  like. 
But  I  thought  we  could  easily  arrange  to  leave  him  some- 
where near  until  we  returned.  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Coningham 
about  it,  who  entered  into  my  small  scheme  with  the  greatest 
kindness.  Charley  confided  to  me  afterward  that  he  did  not 
take  to  him — ^he  was  too  like  an  ape,  he  said.  But  the  im- 
pression of  his  ugliness  had  with  me  quite  worn  off ;  and  for 
his  part,  if  I  had  been  a  favorite  nephew  he  could  not  have 
been  more  complaisant  and  hearty. 

I  felt  very  stiff  when  we  set  out,  and  altogether  not  quite 
myself;  but  the  discomfort  wore  off  as  we  went.  Charley 
had  Mr.  Conino-ham's  horse,  and  I  walked  bv  the  side  of 
Clara's,  eager  after  any  occasion,  if  but  a  pretence,  of  being 
useful  to  her.  She  Avas  quite  familiar  with  me,  but  seemed 
shy  of  Charley.  He  looked  much  more  of  a  man  tlian  I ;  for 
not  only,  as  I  have  said,  had  he  grown  much  during  his  ill- 
ness, but  there  was  an  air  of  troubled  thoughtfulness  about 
him  which  made  him  look  considerably  older  than  he  really 
was ;  while  his  delicate  complexion  and  large  blue  eyes  had  a 
kind  of  mystery  about  them  that  must  have  been  very  attrac- 
tive. 

When  we  reached  the  village,  I  told  Charley  that  we 
wanted  to  go  on  foot  to  the  cave,  and  hoped  he  would  not 
mind  waiting  our  return.  But  he  refused  to  be  left,  declaring 
he  should  not  mind  going  in  the  least ;  that  he  was  quite  well 


158  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

now,  and  ashamed  of  his  behaviour  on  the  former  occasion ; 
that,  in  fact,  it  must  have  been  his  approaching  illness  that 
caused  it.  I  could  not  insist,  and  we  set  out.  The  footpath 
led  us  through  fields  of  coin,  with  a  bright  sun  overhead,  and 
a  sweet  wind  blowing.  It  was  a  glorious  day  of  golden  corn, 
■:>-entle  wind,  and  blue  sky,  with  great  masses  of  white  snow, 
whiter  than  any  cloud,  held  np  in  it. 

We  descended  the  steep  bank ;  we  crossed  the  wooden 
bridge  over  the  little  river ;  we  crunched  under  our  feet  the 
hail-like  crystals  lying  rough  on  the  surface  of  the  glacier  ;  we 
reached  the  cave  and  entered  the  blue  abyss.  I  went  first  into 
the  delicious,  yet  dangerous-looking  blue.  The  cave  had 
several  sharp  angles  in  it.  When  I  reached  the  farthest 
corner  I  turned  to  look  behind  me.  I  was  alone.  I  walked 
back  and  peeped  round  the  last  comer.  Between  that  and 
the  one  beyond  it  stood  Clara  and  Charley,  staring  at  each 
other  with  faces  of  ghastly  horror. 

Clara's  look  certainly  could  not  have  been  the  result  of  any 
excess  of  imagination.  But  many  women  respond  easily  to 
influences  they  could  not  have  originated.  My  conjecture  is, 
that  the  same  horror  had  again  seized  upon  Charley  when  he 
saw  Clara ;  that  it  made  his  face,  already  death-like,  tenfold 
more  fearful ;  that  Clara  took  fright  at  his  fear,  her  imagina- 
tion opening  like  a  crystal  to  the  polarized  light  of  reflected 
feeling ;  and  thus  they  stood  in  the  paralysis  of  a  dismay 
which  ever  multiplied  itself  in  the  opposed  mirrors  of  their 
countenances. 

I  too  was  in  terror — for  Charley  certainly  wasted  no  time 
in  speculation.  I  went  forward  instantly,  and  put  an  arm 
round  each.  They  woke  up,  as  it  were,  and  tried  to  laugh. 
But  the  laugh  was  worse  than  the  stare.  I  hurried  them  out 
of  the  place. 

We   came  upon  Mr.  Coningham   round  the  next   corner, 
amusing  himself  with  the  talk  of  the  half-silly  guide. 
"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  he  asked. 
"  Out  again,"  I  answered.     "  The  air  is  oppressive." 
"  Nonsense,"  he  said  merrily.     "  The  air  is  as  pure  as  it  is 


AGAIN   THE   ICE-CAVE.  159 

cold.     Come,  Clara ;  I  want  to  explore  the  penetralia  of  this 
temple  of  Isis." 

I  believe  he  intended  a  pun. 

Clara  turned  with  him ;  Charley  and  I  went  out  into  the 
sunshine. 

"  You  should  not  have  gone,  Charley.  You  have  caught  a 
chill  again,"  I  said. 

"  No,  nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  answered.  "Only  it  was  too 
dreadful.  That  lovely  face!  To  see  it  like  that — -and  know 
that  is  what  it  is  coming  to !" 

"  You  looked  as  horrid  yourself,"  I  returned. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.     We  all  did.     But  why?" 

"  Yf  hy,  just  because  of  the  blueness,"  I  answered. 

"  Yes — the  blueness,  no  doubt.  That  was  all.  But  there  it 
was,  you  know." 

Clara  came  out  smiling.  All  her  horror  had  vanished.  I 
was  looking  into  the  hole  as  she  turned  the  last  corner. 
"When  she  first  appeared,  her  face  was  "  like  one  that  hath 
been  seven  days  drowned ; "  but  as  she  advanced,  the  decay 
thinned,  and  the  life  grew,  until  at  last  she  stepped  from  the 
mouth  of  the  sepulchre  in  all  the  glow  of  her  merry  youth. 
It  was  a  dumb  show  of  the  resurrection. 

As  we  went  back  to  the  inn,  Clara,  who  was  walking  in  front 
with  her  father,  turned  her  head  and  addressed  me  suddenly. 

"  You  see  it  was  all  a  sham,  Wilfrid  !  "  she  said. 

"What  was  a  sham?  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I 
rejoined. 

"  Why  that,"  she  returned,  pointing  with  her  hand.  Then 
addressing  her  father,  "  Isn't  that  the  Eiger,"  she  asked — "  the 
same  we  rode  under  yesterday  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  is,"  he  answered. 

She  turned  again  to  me. 

"  You  see  it  is  all  a  sham  !  Last  night  it  pretended  to  be 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  road  and  hanging  over  our  heads  at 
an  awful  height.  Now  it  has  gone  a  long  way  back,  is  not  so 
very  high,  and  certainly  does  not  hang  over.  I  ought  not  to 
have  been  satisfied  with  that  precipice.     It  took  me  in." 


160  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

I  did  not  reply  at  once.  Clara's  words  appeared  to  me 
quite  irreverent,  and  I  recoiled  from  the  very  thought  that 
there  could  be  any  sham  in  nature ;  but  what  to  answer  her  I 
did  not  know.  I  almost  began  to  dislike  her ;  for  it  is  often 
incapacity  for  delending  the  faith  they  love  which  turns  men 
into  persecutors. 

Seeing  me  foiled,  Charley  advanced  with  the  doubtful  air 
of  a  sophism  to  help  me. 

"  Which  is  the  sham,  Miss  Clara  ?"  he  asked. 

"  That  Eiger  mountain  there." 

"Ah!  sol  thought." 

"  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion,  Mr.  Osborne  ?" 

"  You  mean  the  mountain  is  shamming,  don't  you — looking 
far  off  when  really  it  is  near  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.  When  it  looked  last  night  as  if  it  hung  right 
over  our  heads,  it  was  shamming.  See  it  now — far  away  there !" 

"  But  which  then  is  the  sham,  and  which  is  the  true  ?  It 
looked  near  yesterday  and  now  it  looks  far  away.  Which  is 
which?" 

"  It  must  have  been  a  sham  yesterday ;  for  although  it 
looked  near,  it  was  very  dull  and  dim,  and  you  could  only  see 
the  sharp  outline  of  it." 

"  Just  so  I  argue  on  the  other  side :  The  mountain  must  be 
shamming  now,  for  although  it  looks  so  far  off,  it  yet  shows  a 
most  contradictory  clearness — not  only  of  outline  but  of 
surface." 

"Aha!"  thought  I,  "Miss  Clara  has  found  her  match. 
They  both  know  he  is  talking  nonsense,  yet  she  can't  answer 
him.  What  she  was  saying  was  nonsense  too,  but  I  can't 
answer  it  either — not  yet." 

I  felt  proud  of  both  of  them,  but  of  Charley  in  especial, 
for  I  had  no  idea  he  could  be  so  qui?k. 

"  What  ever  put  such  an  answer  in  your  head,  Charley  ?"  I 
exclaimed. 

"  Oh !  it's  not  quite  original,"  he  returned.  "  I  believe  it 
was  suggested  by  two  or  three  lines  I  read  in  a  review  just 
before  we  left  home.     They  took  a  hold  of  me  rather." 


AGAIN   THE    ICE-CAVE.  161 

He  repeated  half  of  the  now  well-kuown  little  poem  of 
Shelley,  headed  Passage  of  the  Apennines.  He  had  forgotten 
the  name  of  the  writer,  and  it  was  many  years  before  I  fell  in 
with  them  myself: — 

"The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  gray, 
Which  between  the  earth  and  sk}'  doth  lay ; 
But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread. 
And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the  storm." 

In  the  middle  of  it  I  saw  Clara  begin  to  titter,  but  she  did 
not  interrupt  him.  When  he  had  finished,  she  said  with  a 
grave  face,  too  grave  for  seriousness : — 

"Will  you  repeat  the  third  line — I  think  it  was,  Mr. 
Osborne  ?" 

He  did  so. 

"  What  kind  of  eggs  did  the  Apennine  lay,  Mr.  Osborne  V 
she  asked,  still  perfectly  serious. 

Charley  was  abashed  to  find  that  she  could  take  advantage 
of  probably  a  provincialism  to  turn  into  ridicule  such  fine 
verses.  Before  he  could  recover  himself,  she  had  planted 
another  blow  or  two. 

"  And  where  is  its  nest  ?  Between  the  earth  and  the  sky  is 
vague.  But  then  to  be  sure  it  must  want  a  good  deal  of 
room.  And  after  all,  a  mountain  is  a  gtrange  fowl,  and  who 
knows  where  it  might  lay  ?  Between  earth  and  sky  is  quite 
definite  enough.  Besides,  the  bird-nesting  boys  might  be 
dangerous  if  they  knew  where  it  was.  It  would  be  such  a 
find  for  them !" 

My  champion  was  defeated.  Without  attempting  a  word  in 
reply,  he  hung  back  and  dropped  behind.  Mr.  Coningham 
must  have  heard  the  whole,  but  he  offered  no  remark.  I  saw 
that  Charley's  sensitive  nature  was  hurt,  and  my  heart  was  sore 
for  him. 

"  That's  too  bad  of  you,  Clara,"  I  said. 

"  What's  too  bad  of  me,  Wilfrid  ?"  she  returned. 

I  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered  : 
11 


1C)2  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  To  make  game  of  such  verses.  Any  one  with  half  a  soul 
must  see  they  were  fine." 

"  Very  wrong  of  you,  indeed,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Coningham 
from  behind,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  as  if  he  were  smothering 
a  huigh  ;  ])ut  when  I  looked  round,  his  face  was  grave. 

"  Then  I  suppose  that  half  soul  I  haven't  got,"  returned 
Clara. 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  mean  that,"  I  said,  lamely  enough.  "  But 
there's  no  logic  in  that  kind  of  thing,  you  know." 

"  You  see,  papa,"  said  Clara,  "  what  you  are  accountable 
for.     Why  didn't  you  make  them  teach  me  logic?" 

Her  father  smiled  a  pleased  smile.  His  daughter's  naivete 
would  in  his  eyes  make  up  for  any  lack  of  logic. 

"  Mr.  Osborne,"  continued  Clara,  turning  back,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  am  a  woman,  and  you  men  don't  allow  us  to  learn 
logic.  But  at  the  same  time  you  must  confess  you  were  making 
a  ba,d  use  of  yours.  You  know  it  was  all  nonsense  you  were 
trying  to  pass  off  on  me  for  wisdom." 

He  was  by  her  side  the  instant  she  spoke  to  him.  A  smile 
grew  upon  his  face  :  I  could  see  it  growing,  just  as  you  see  the 
sun  growing  behind  a  cloud.  In  a  moment  it  broke  out  in 
radiance. 

"  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  you  were  too  hard  on  Wil- 
frid ;  and  he  hadn't  anything  at  hand  to  say  for  himself." 

"  And  you  were  too  hard  upon  me,  weren't  you  ?  Two  to  one 
is  not  fair  play — is  it  now  ?" 
"  No  ;  certainly  not." 

"  And  that  justified  a  little  false  play  on  my  part?" 
"  No,  it  did  not,"  said  Charley,  almost  fiercely.     "  Nothing 
justifies  false  play." 

"Not  even  yours,  Mr.  Osborne?"  replied  Clara,  with  a 
stately  coldness  quite  marvellous  in  one  so  young  ;  and  leaving 
him,  she  came  again  to  my  side.  I  peeped  at  Mr.  Coningham, 
curious  to  see  how  he  regarded  all  this  wrangling  with  his 
daughter.  He  appeared  at  once  amused  and  satisfied.  Clara's 
face  was  in  a  glow,  cl»=arly  of  anger,  at  the  discourteous  man- 
ner in  which  Charley  had  spoken. 


AGAIN    THE   ICE-CAVE.  163 

"  You  mustn't  be  angry  with  Charley,  Clara,"  I  said. 

"  He  is  very  rude,"  she  replied  indignantly. 

"  What  he  said  was  rude,  I  allow,  but  Charley  himself  is 
anything  but  rude.  I  haven't  looked  at  him,  but  I  am  certain 
he  is  miserable  about  it  already." 

"  So  he  ought  to  be.  To  speak  like  that  to  a  lady,  when  her 
very  friendliness  put  her  off  her  guard !  I  never  was  treated 
so  in  all  my  life." 

She  spoke  so  loud  that  she  must  have  meant  Charley  to  hear 
her.  But  when  I  looked  back,  I  saw  that  he  had  fallen  a  long 
way  behind,  and  was  coming  on  very  slowly,  with  dejected 
look  and  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  Mr.  Coningham  did  not  in- 
terfere by  word  or  sign. 

When  we  reached  the  inn  he  ordered  some  refreshment,  and 
behaved  to  us  both  as  if  we  were  grown  men.  Just  a  touch 
of  familiarity  was  the  sole  indication  that  we  were  not  grown 
men.  Boys  are  especially  grateful  for  respect  from  their  supe- 
riors, for  it  helps  them  to  respect  themselves ;  but  Charley  sat 
silent  and  gloomy.  As  he  would  not  ride  back,  and  Mr.  Co- 
ningham preferred  walking  too,  I  got  into  the  saddle  and  rode 
by  Clara's  side. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  Charley  crept  up  to  the  other 
side  of  Clara's  horse,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  mane.  When 
he  spoke  Clara  started,  for  she  was  looking  the  other  way  and 
had  not  observed  his  approach. 

"  Miss  Clara,"  he  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry  I  was  so  rude. 
Will  you  forgive  me  ?'* 

Instead  of  being  hard  to  reconcile,  as  I  had  feared  from  her 
outburst  of  indignation,  she  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his.  He  looked  up  in  her  face,  his  own  suffused  with  a 
color  I  had  never  seen  in  it  before.  His  great  blue  eyes  light- 
ened with  thankfulness,  and  began  to  fill  with  tears.  How  she 
looked,  I  could  not  see.  She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  Charley 
dropped  behind  again.  In  a  little  while  he  came  up  to  my 
side,  and  began  talking.  He  soon  got  quite  merry,  but  Clara 
in  her  turn  was  silent. 

I  doubt  if  anything  would  be  worth   telling  but  for  what 


1G4  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

comes  after.  History  itself  would  be  worthless  but  for  what 
it  caunot  tell,  uaniely,  its  owii  future.  Upon  this  ground  my 
reader  must  excuse  the  apparent  triviality  of  the  things  I  am 
now  relating. 

When  we  were  alone  in  our  room  that  night — for  ever  since 
Charley's  illness  we  two  had  had  a  room  to  ourselves — Charley 
said : 

"  I  behaved  like  a  brute  this  morning,  Wilfrid." 

"  No,  Charley ;  you  were  only  a  little  rude  from  being  over 
eager.  If  she  had  been  seriously  advocating  dishonesty,  you 
would  have  been  quite  right  to  take  it  up  so ;  and  you  thought 
she  was." 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  was  very  silly  of  me.  I  dare  say  it  was  because 
I  had  been  so  dishonest  myself  just  before.  How  dreadful  it 
is  that  I  am  always  taking  my  own  side,  even  when  I  do  what 
I  am  ashamed  of  in  another.  I  suppose  I  think  I  have  got 
my  horse  by  the  head,  and  the  other  has  not." 

"  I  don't  know.  That  may  be  it,"  I  answered.  "  I'm  afraid 
I  can't  think  about  it  to-night,  for  I  don't  feel  well.  What  if 
it  should  be  your  turn  to  nurse  me  now,  Charley  ?" 

He  turned  quite  pale,  his  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  looked 
at  me  anxiously. 

Before  morning  I  was  aching  all  over :  I  had  rheumatic 
fever. 


CHARLEY   NURSES   ME.  165 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CHARLEY    NURSES     ME. 

I  SAW  no  more  of  Clara.  Mr.  ConiDghara  came  to  bid  me 
good-bye,  and  spoke  very  kindly.  Mr.  Forest  would  have  got 
a  nurse  for  me,  but  Charley  begged  so  earnestly  to  be  allowed 
to  return  the  service  I  had  done  for  him,  that  he  yielded. 

I  was  in  great  pain  for  more  than  a  week.  Charley's  atten- 
tions were  unremitting.  In  fact  he  nursed  me  more  like  a  wo- 
man than  a  boy ;  and  made  me  think  with  some  contrition 
how  poor  my  ministrations  had  been.  Even  after  the  worst 
was  over,  if  I  but  moved,  he  was  at  my  bedside  in  a  moment. 
Certainly  no  nurse  could  have  surpassed  him.  I  could  bear  no 
one  to  touch  me  but  him :  from  any  one  else  I  dreaded  torture ; 
and  my  medicine  was  administered  to  the  very  moment  by  my 
own  old  watch,  which  had  been  brought  to  do  its  duty  at  least 
respectably. 

One  afternoon,  finding  me  tolerably  comfortable,  he  said : 

"  Shall  I  read  something  to  you,  Wilfrid  ?" 

He  never  called  me  WilliC;  as  most  of  my  friends  did- 

"  I  should  like  it,"  I  answered. 

"  What  shall  I  read  ?"  he  asked. 

'^  Hadn't  you  something  in  your  head,"  I  rejoined,  "  when 
you  proposed  it  ?" 

"  Well,  I  had ;  but  I  don't  know  if  you  would  like  it." 

"  What  did  you  think  of  then  ?" 

"  I  thought  of  a  chapter  in  the  New  Testament." 

"  How  could  you  think  I  should  not  like  that  ?" 

"  Because  I  never  saw  you  say  your  prayers." 

"  That  is  quite  true.  But  you  don't  think  I  never  say  my 
prayers  although  you  never  see  me  do  it  ?" 

The  fact  was,  my  uncle,  amongst  his  other  peculiarities,  did 
not  approve  of  teaching  children  to  say  their  prayers.    But  he 


loa  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

did  Dot  therefore  leave  me  without  instruction  in  the  matter  of 
prayiug— either  the  idlest  or  the  most  availing  of  human  ac- 
tions. He  would  say,  "  When  you  want  anything,  ask  for  it 
Willie ;  and  if  it  is  worth  your  having,  you  will  have  it.  But 
don't  fiincy  you  are  doing  God  any  service  by  praying  to  him. 
He  likes  you  to  pray  to  him  because  he  loves  you,  and  wants 
you  to  love  him.  And  whatever  you  do,  don't  go  saying  a  lot 
of  words  you  don't  mean.  If  you  think  you  ought  to  pray, 
say  your  Lord's  Prayer,  and  have  done  with  it."  I  had  no 
theory  myself  on  the  matter ;  but  when  I  was  in  misery  on  the 
wild  mountains,  I  had  indeed  prayed  to  God ;  and  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  hope,  w^hen  I  got  what  I  prayed  for,  that  he 
had  heard  my  prayer. 

Charley  made  no  reply. 

"  It  seems  to  me  better  that  sort  of  thing  should  not  be  seen, 
Charley,"  I  persisted. 

"  Perhaps,  Wilfrid ;  but  I  was  taught  to  say  my  prayers 
regularly." 

"I  don't  think  much  of  that  either,"  I  answered.  "But  I've 
said  a  good  many  prayers  since  I've  been  here,  Charley.  I 
can't  say  I'm  sure  it's  of  any  use,  but  I  can't  help  trying  after 
something — I  don't  know  v/hat — something  I  want,  and  don't 
know  how  to  get." 

"  Bat  it's  only  the  prayer  of  faith  that's  heard.  Do  you  be- 
lieve, Wilfrid  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  daren't  say  I  don't.  I  wish  I  could  say 
I  do.   But  I  dare  say  things  will  be  considered." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  grand  if  it  was  true,  Wilfrid?" 

"What,  Charley?" 

"  That  God  actually  let  his  creatures  see  him — and — all  that 
came  of  it,  you  know." 

"  It  would  be  grand  indeed !  But  supposing  it  true,  how 
could  we  be  expected  to  believe  it  like  them  that  saw  him  with 
their  own  eyes?  /couldn't  be  required  to  believe  just  as  if 
I  could  have  no  doubt  about  it.  It  wouldn't  be  fair.  Only — 
perhaps  we  haven't  got  the  clew  by  the  right  end." 

"  Perhaps  not.    But  sometimes  I  hate  the  whole  thing.  And 


CHARLEY   NURSES   xME.  167 

then  again  I  feel  as  if  I  must  read  all  about  it ;  not  that  I  care 
for  it  exactly,  but  because  a  body  must  do  something — because 
— I  don't  know  how  to  say  it — because  of  the  misery,  you 
know." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do  know  —quite.  But  now  you  have 
started  the  subject,  I  thought  that  was  great  nonsense  Mr. 
Forest  was  talking  about  the  authority  of  the  church  the  other 
day." 

"  Well,  I  thought  so,  too.  I  don't  see  what  right  they  have 
to  say  so  and  so,  if  they  didn't  hear  him  speak.  As  to  what 
he  meant,  they  may  be  right  or  they  may  be  wrong.  If  they 
have  the  gift  of  the  Spirit,  as  they  say — how  am  I  to  tell  they 
have  ?  All  impostors  claim  it  as  well  as  the  true  men.  If  I 
had  ever  so  little  of  the  same  gift  myself,  I  suppose  I  could 
tell ;  but  they  say  no  one  has  till  he  believes — so  they  may  be 
all  humbugs  for  anything  I  can  possibly  tell ;  or  they  may  be 
all  true  men  and  yet  I  may  fancy  them  all  humbugs,  and  can't 
help  it." 

I  was  quite  as  much  astonished  to  hear  Charley  talk  in  this 
style,  as  some  readers  will  be  doubtful  whether  a  boy  could 
have  talked  such  good  sense.  I  said  nothing,  and  a  silence 
followed. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you  then?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  should  ;  for,  do  you  know,  after  all,  I  don't  think 
there's  anything  like  the  New  Testament." 

"Anything  like  it!"  he  repeated.  "I  should  think  not! 
Only  I  wish  I  did  know  what  it  ail  meant.  I  wish  I  could  talk 
to  my  father  as  I  would  to  Jesus  Christ  if  I  saw  him.  But  if 
I  could  talk  to  my  father,  he  wouldn't  understand  me.  He 
would  speak  to  me  as  if  I  were  the  very  scum  of  the  universe 
for  daring  to  have  a  doubt  of  what  he  told  me." 

"  But  he  doesn't  mean  himself"  I  said. 

"Well,who  told  him?" 

"The  Bible." 

"And  who  told  the  Bible?" 

"  God,  of  course." 

"But  how  am  I  to  know  that  ?     I  only  know  that  they  say 


168  WILFRID  CUMRERMEDE. 

SO.  Do  you  know,  Wilfrid — 1  dont  believe  my  father  is  quite 
sure  himself,  and  that  is  what  makes  him  in  such  a  rage  with 
anybody  who  doesn't  think  as  he  does.  He's  afraid  it  mayn't 
be  true  after  all." 

I  had  never  had  a  father  to  talk  to,  but  I  thought  some- 
thing must  be  wrong  when  a  boy  couldnt  talk  to  his  father. 
My  uncle  was  a  better  father  than  that  came  to. 

Another  pause  followed,  during  which  Charley  searched  for 
a  chapter  to  fit  the  mood.  I  will  not  say  what  chapter  he 
found,  for,  after  all,  I  doubt  if  we  had  any  real  notion  of  what 
it  meant.  I  know,  however,  that  there  were  words  in  it  which 
found  their  w^ay  to  my  conscience  ;  and,  let  men  of  science  or 
philosophy  say  what  they  will,  the  rousing  of  a  man's  con- 
science is  the  greatest  event  in  his  existence.  In  such  a 
matter,  the  consciousness  of  the  man  himself  is  the  sole  wit- 
ness. A  Chinese  can  expose  many  of  the  absurdities  and 
inconsistencies  of  the  English :  it  is  their  own  Shakspeare  who 
must  bear  witness  to  their  sins  and  faults,  as  well  as  their 
truths  and  characteristics. 

After  this  we  had  many  conversations  about  such  things, 
one  of  which  I  shall  attempt  to  report  bye  and  bye.  Of 
course  in  any  such  attempt,  all  that  can  be  done  is  to  put  the 
effect  into  frash  conversational  form.  What  I  have  just 
written  must  at  least  be  more  orderly  than  what  passed 
between  us ;  but  the  spirit  is  much  the  same ;  and  mere  faet 
is  of  consequence  only  as  it  affects  truth. 


A.   DREAM.  169 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A   DREAM. 

The  best  immediate  result  of  ray  illueas  was,  that  I  learned 
to  love  Charley  Ooborne  more  dearly.  We  renewed  an  affec- 
tion resembling  from  afar  that  of  Shakspeare  for  his  nameless 
friend  ;  we  anticipated  that  informing  In  Memoriam.  Lest  I 
be  accused  of  infinite  arrogance,  let  me  remind  my  reader  that 
the  sun  is  reflected  in  a  dewdrop  as  in  the  ocean. 

One  night  I  had  a  strange  dream,  which  is  perhaps  worth 
telling  for  the  involution  of  its  consciousness. 

I  thought  I  was  awake  in  my  bed,  and  Charley  asleep  in 
his.  I  lay  looking  into  the  room.  It  began  to  waver  and 
change.  The  night-light  enlarged  and  receded ;  and  the  walls 
trembled  and  waved  about.  The  light  had  got  behind  them, 
and  shone  through  them. 

"  Charley!  Charley  !"  I  cried  ;  for  I  was  frightened. 

I  heard  him  move  ;  but  before  he  reached  me  I  was  lying 
on  a  lawn,  surrounded  by  trees,  with  the  moon  shining 
through  them  from  behind.  The  next  moment  Charley  was 
by  my  side. 

"  Isn't  it  prime  ?"  he  said.     "  It's  all  over  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Charley  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  mean  that  we're  both  dead  now.     It's  not  so  very  bad — 

is  it  r 

"  Nonsense,  Charley !"  I  returned  ;  "  Tm  not  dead.  I'm 
as  wide  alive  as  ever  I  was.     Look  here." 

So  saying,  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  drew  myself  up  before 
him. 

''  Where's  your  worst  pain  ?"  said  Charley,  with  a  curious 
expression  in  his  tone. 

"  Here,"  I  answered.  "  No  ;  it's  not ;  it's  in  my  back.  No, 
it  isn't.     It's  nowhere.     I  haven't  got  any  pain." 


170  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

Charley  laughed  a  low  laugh,  which  sounded  as  sweet  as 
strange.  It  was  to  the  laughter  of  the  world  "  as  moonlight 
is  to  sunlight,"  but  not  "as  water  is  to  wine,"  for  what  it  had 
lost  in  sound  it  had  gained  in  smile 

"Tell  me  now  you're  not  dead!"  he  exclaimed  triumphantly. 

"  But,"  I  insisted,  "  don't  you  see  I'm  alive?  You  maybe 
dead,  for  anything  I  know,  but  /  am  not — I  know  that." 

"  You're  just  as  dead  as  I  am,"  he  said.     "  Look  here." 

A  little  way  off,  in  an  open  plot  by  itself,  stood  a  little  white 
rose-tree,  half  mingled  with  the  moonlight.  Charley  went  up 
to  it,  stepped  on  the  topmost  twig,  and  stood  :  the  bush  did 
not  even  bend  under  him. 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered.  "  You  are  dead,  I  confess.  But 
now,  look  you  here." 

I  went  to  a  red  rose-bush  which  stood  at  some  distance, 
blanched  in  the  moon,  set  my  foot  on  the  top  of  it,  and  made 
as  if  I  would  ascend,  expecting  to  crush  it,  roses  and  all,  to 
the  ground.  But  behold!  I  was  standing  on  my  red  rose  op- 
posite Charley  on  his  white. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  he  cried,  across  the  moonlight,  and  his 
voice  sounded  as  if  it  came  from  the  moon  far  away. 

"  Oh,  Charley !"  I  cried,  "  I'm  so  frightened  !" 

"  What  are  you  frightened  at  ?" 

"  At  you.     You're  dead,  you  know." 

"It  is  a  good  thing,  Wilfrid,"  he  rejoined,  in  a  tone  of  some 
reproach,  "that  I  am  not  frightened  at  you  for  the  same 
reason ;  for  what  would  happen  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  you  would  go  away  and  leave 
me  alone  in  this  ghostly  light." 

"  If  I  were  frightened  at  you  as  you  are  at  me,  we  should 
not  be  able  to  see  each  other  at  all.  If  you  take  courage,  the 
light  will  grow." 

"  Don't  leave  me,  Charley,"  I  cried,  and  flung  myself  from 
my  tree  towards  his.  I  found  myself  floating,  half  reclined 
on  the  air.     We  met  midway  each  in  the  other's  arms. 

"  I  don't  know  where  I  am,  Charley." 

"  That  is  ray  father's  rectory." 


A    DREAM.  171 

He  pointed  to  the  house,  which  I  had  not  yet  observed.  It  hiy 
quite  dat-k  iu  the  mooulight,  for  not  a  window  shone  from  within. 

"  Don't  leave  me,  Charley." 

"  Leave  you !  I  should  think  not,  Wilfrid.  I  have  been 
long  enough  without  you  already." 

"  Have  you  been  long  dead,  then,  Charley  ?" 

"  Not  very  long.  Yes,  a  long  time.  But  indeed  I  don't 
know.  We  don't  count  time  as  we  used  to  count  it.  I  want 
to  go  and  see  my  father.  It  is  long  since  I  saw  him,  anyhow. 
Will  you  come  ?" 

"  If  you  think  I  might — if  you  wish  it,"  I  said,  for  I  had 
no  great  desire  to  see  Mr.  Osborne.  "Perhaps  he  won't  care 
to  see  me." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Charley,  with  another  low  silvery 
laugh.     "  Come  along." 

We  glided  over  the  grass.  A  window  stood  a  little  open 
on  the  second  floor.  We  floated  up,  entered,  and  stood  by  the 
bedside  of  Charley's  father.     He  lay  in  a  sound  sleep. 

"  Father !  father !"  said  Charley,  whispering  in  his  ear  as 
he  lay — "it's  all  right.  You  need  not  be  troubled  about  me 
any  more." 

Mr.  Osborne  turned  on  his  pillow. 

"  He's  dreaming  about  us  now,"  said  Charley.  "  He  sees 
us  both  standing  by  his  bed." 

But  the  next  moment,  Mr.  Osborne  sat  up,  stretched  out 
his  arms  towards  us  with  the  open  palms  outward,  as  if 
pushing  us  away  from  him,  and  cried : 

"  Depart  from  me,  all  evil-doers.  O  Lord  !  do  I  not  hate 
them  that  hate  thee  ?" 

He  followed  with  other  yet  more  awful  words  which  I  never 
could  recall.  I  only  remember  the  feeling  of  horror  and 
amazement  they  left  behind.  I  turned  to  Charley.  He  had 
disappeared,  and  I  found  myself  lying  in  the  bed  beside  Mr. 
Osborne.  I  gave  a  great  cry  of  dismay — when  there  was 
Charley  again  beside  me,  saying : 

"  AVhat's  the  matter,  Wilfrid  ?  Wake  up.  My  father's  not 
here." 


1~2  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

I  did  wake,  Ijut  until  I  had  felt  in  the  bed  could  not  satisfy 
myself  that  Mr.  Osborne  was  indeed  not  there. 

*' You've  been  talking  in  your  sleep.  I  could  hardly  get 
you  waked,"  said  Charley,  who  stood  there  in  his  shirt. 

"  O  Charley  !"  I  cried,  "  I've  had  such  a  dream  !" 

"  What  was  it,  Wilfrid  ?'* 

"Oh !  I  can't  talk  about  it  yet,"  I  answered. 

I  never  did  tell  hira  that  dream  ;  for  even  then  I  was  often 
uneasy  about  him — he  w^as  so  sensitive.  The  affections  of  ray 
friend  were  as  hoops  of  steel ;  his  feelings  a  breath  would 
ripple.  O  my  Charley!  if  ever  we  meet  m  that  land  so 
vaguely  shadowed  in  my  dream,  will  you  not  know  that  I 
loved  you  heartily  w^ell  ?  Shall  I  not  hasten  to  lay  bare  my 
heart  before  you — the  priest  of  its  confessional?  O  Charley! 
when  the  truth  is  known,  the  false  will  fly  asunder  as  the 
autumn  leaves  in  the  wind ;  but  the  true,  whatever  their 
faults,  will  only  draw  together  the  more  tenderly  that  they 
have  sinned  against  each  other. 


THE   FROZEN   STKEAM.  173 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE    FROZEN    STREAM. 

Before  the  winter  arrived  I  was  well,  and  Charley  had 
recovered  the  fatigue  of  watching  me.  One  holiday  he  and  I 
set  out  alone  to  accomplish  a  scheme  we  had  cherished  from 
the  first  appearance  of  the  frost.  How  it  arose  I  hardly 
remember  ;  I  think  it  came  of  some  remark  Mr.  Forest  had 
made  concerning  the  difference  between  the  streams  of 
Switzerland  and  England — those  in  the  former  country  being 
emptiest,  those  in  the  latter  fullest  in  the  winter.  It  was — 
when  the  frost  should  have  bound  up  the  sources  of  the  beck 
which  ran  almost  by  our  door,  and  it  was  no  longer  a  stream 
but  a  rope  of  ice— to  take  that  rope  for  our  guide,  and  follow 
it  as  far  as  we  could  towards  the  secret  recesses  of  its  summer 
birth. 

Along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  we  followed  it  up  and  up, 
meeting  a  varied  loveliness  which  it  would  take  the  soul  of  a 
Wordsworth  or  a  Kuskin  to  comprehend  and  express.  To  my 
poor  faculty  the  splendor  of  the  ice-crystals  remains  the  one 
memorable  thing.  In  those  lonely  water-courses  the  sun  was 
gloriously  busy,  with  none  to  praise  him  except  Charley  and 
me. 

Where  the  banks  were  difficult  we  went  down  into  the 
frozen  bed,  and  there  had  story  above  story  of  piled-up  love- 
liness, with  opal  and  diamond  cellars  below.  Spikes  and  stars 
crystalline  radiated  and  refracted  and  reflected  marvellously. 
But  we  did  not  reach  the  primary  source  of  the  stream  by 
miles  ;  we  were  stopped  by  a  precipitous  rock,  down  the  face 
of  which  one  half  of  the  stream  fell,  while  the  other  crept  out 
of  its  foot,  from  a  little  cavernous  opening  about  four  feet 
high.  Charley  was  a  few  yards  ahead  of  me,  and  ran  stooping 
into  the  cavern.     I  followed.     But  when  I  had  gone  as  far  as 


174  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

I  daivd  for  the  darkness  and  the  down-sloping  roof,' and  saw 
nothing  of  him,  I  grew  dismayed,  and  called  him.  There  was 
no  answer.  With  a  thrill  of  horror,  my  dream  returned  upon 
me.  I  got  on  my  hands  and  knees  and  crept  forward. .  A 
short  way  farther  the  floor  sank — only  a  little,  I  believe,  but 
from  the  darkness  I  took  the  descent  for  an  abyss  into  which 
Charley  had  fallen.  I  gave  a  shriek  of  despair,  and  scram- 
Jbled  out  of  the  cave  howling.  In  a  moment  he  was  by  my 
side.  He  had  only  crept  behind  a  projection  for  a  trick.  His 
remorse  was  extreme.  He  begged  my  pardon  in  the  most 
agonized  manner. 

"  Never  mind,  Charley,"  I  said,  "  you  didn't  mean  it." 

"  Yes,  I  did  mean  it,"  he  returned.  "  The  temptation  came, 
and  I  yielded ;  only  I  did  not  know  how  dreadful  it  would 
be  to  you." 

"  Of  course  not.     You  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  you  had." 

*'  How  am  I  to  know  that,  Wilfrid  ?  I  might  have  done  it. 
Isn't  it  frightful  that  a  body  may  go  on  and  on  till  a  thing  is 
done,  and  then  wish  he  hadn't  done  it.  I  am  a  despicable 
creature.  Do  you  know,  Wilfrid,  I  once  shot  a  little  bird — 
for  no  good,  but  just  to  shoot  at  something.  It  wasn't  that  I 
didn't  think  of  it — don't  say  that.  I  did  think  of  it.  I  knew 
it  was  wrong.  When  I  had  leveled  my  gun  I  thought  of  it 
quite  plainly,  and  yet  drew  the  trigger.  It  dropped,  a  heap 
of  ruffled  feathers.  I  shall  never  get  that  little  bird  out  of 
my  head.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  to  all  eternity  I  can 
never  make  any  atonement." 

"  But  God  will  forgive  you,  Charley." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  that,"  he  rejoined,  almost  fiercely, 
"  when  the  little  bird  cannot  forgive  me  ?  I  would  go  on  my 
knees  to  the  little  bird  if  I  could,  to  beg  its  pardon,  and  tell 
it  what  a  brute  I  was,  and  it  might  shoot  me  if  it  would,  and 
I  should  say  '  Thank  you.'  " 

He  laughed  almost  hysterically,  and  the  tears  ran  down 
his  face. 

I  have  said  little  about  my  uncle's  teaching  lest  I  should 
bore  my  readers.     But  there  it  came  in,  and  therefore  here  it 


THE    FROZEN    STREAM.  170 

must  come  in.  My  uncle  had,  by  no  positive  instruction,  but 
by  occasional  observations,  not  one  of  which  I  can  recall, 
generated  in  me  a  strong  hope  that  the  life  of  the  lower 
animals  was  terminated  at  their  death  no  more  than  our  own. 
The  man  who  believes  that  thought  is  the  result  of  brain,  and 
not  the  growth  of  an  unknown  seed  whose  soil  is  the  brain, 
may  well  sneer  at  this,  for  he  is  to  himself  but  a  peck  of  dust 
that  has  to  be  eaten  by  the  devouring  jaws  of  Time  ;  but  I 
cannot  see  how  the  man  who  believes  in  soul  at  all  can  say 
that  the  spirit  of  a  man  lives,  and  the  spirit  of  his  horse  dies. 
I  do  not  profess  to  believe  anything  for  certain  sure  myself, 
but  I  do  think  that  he  who,  if  from  merely  philosophical  con- 
siderations, believes  the  one,  ought  to  believe  the  other  as  well. 
Much  more  must  the  theosophist  believe  it.  But  I  had  never 
felt  the  need  of  the  doctrine  until  I  beheld  the  misery  of 
Charley  over  the  memory  of  the  dead  sparrow.  Surely  that 
sparrow  fell  not  to  the  ground  without  the  Father's  know- 
ledge. 

"  Charley !  how  do  you  know,"  I  said,  "  that  you  can  never 
beg  the  bird's  pardon  ?  If  God  made  the  bird,  do  you  fancy 
with  your  gun  you  could  destroy  the  making  of  his  hand? 
If  he  said,  '  Let  there  be,'  do  you  suppose  you  could  say 
'  There  shall  not  be  ?'  "  (Mr.  Forest  had  read  that  chapter 
of  first  things  at  morning  prayers.)  "  I  fancy  myself  that  for 
God  to  put  a  bird  all  in  the  power  of  a  silly,  thoughtless 
boy " 

"Not  thoughtless  !  not  thoughtless!  There  is  the  misery  !" 
said  Charley. 

But  I  went  on — 

" — would  be  worse  than  for  you  to  shoot  it." 

A  great  glow  of  something  I  dare  not  attempt  to  define 
grew  upon  Charley's  face.  It  was  like  what  I  saw  on  it  when 
Clara  laid  her  hand  on  his.  But  presently  it  died  out  again, 
and  he  sighed — 

"  If  there  were  a  God — that  is,  if  I  were  sure  there  was 
a  God,  Wilfrid  !" 

I  could  not  answer.     How  could  I !     I  had  never  seen  God,   ♦ 


170  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

as  the   old  story  says  Moses  did  ou  the  clouded  mountain. 
All  I  could  return  was, — 

"  Suppose  there  should  be  a  God,  Charley  ?  Mightn't 
there  be  a  God?" 

"I  don't  know,'*  he  returned.  "How  should  I  know 
whether  there  might  be  a  God  ?" 

"  But  Diay  there  not  be  a  miglit  he  /"  I  rejoined. 

"  There  may  be.  How  should  I  say  the  other  thing  ?  "  said 
Charley. 

I  do  not  mean  this  was  exactly  what  he  or  I  said.  Unable 
to  recall  the  words  themselves,  I  put  the  sense  of  the  thing  in 
as  clear  a  shape  as  I  can. 

We  were  seated  upon  a  stone  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  oflf 
which  the  sun  had  melted  the  ice.  The  bank  rose  above  us, 
but  not  far.  I  thought  I  heard  a  footstep.  I  jumped  up, 
but  saw  no  one.  I  ran  a  good  way  up  the  stream  to  a  place 
where  I  could  climb  the  bank  ;  but  then  saw  no  one.  The 
footstep,  real  or  imagined,  broke  our  conversation  at  that 
};oint,  and  we  did  not  resume  it.     All  that  followed  was — 

"  If  I  were  the  sparrow,  Charley,  I  would  not  only  forgive 
you,  but  haunt  you  for  ever  out  of  gratitude  that  you  were 
sorry  you  had  killed  me." 

"  Then  you  do  forgive  me  for  frightening  you  ?"  he  said  eagerly. 

Very  likely  Charley  and  I  resembled  each  other  too  much 
to  be  the  best  possible  companions  for  each  other.  There  was, 
however,  this  difference  between  us — that  he  had  been  bored 
with  religion  and  I  had  not.  In  other  words,  food  had  been 
forced  upon  him,  which  had  only  been  laid  before  me. 

We  rose  and  went  home.  A  few  minutes  after  our  entrance 
Mr.  Forest  came  in — looking  strange,  I  thought.  The  con- 
viction crossed  my  mind  that  it  was  his  footstep  we  had  heard 
over  our  heads  as  we  sat  in  the  channel  of  the  frozen  stream. 
I  have  reason  to  think  that  he  followed  us  for  a  chance  of 
listening.  Something  had  set  him  on  the  watch — most  likely 
the  fact  that  we  were  so  much  too-ether  and  did  not  care  for 
the  society  of  the  rest  of  our  schoolfellows.  From  that  time, 
certainly,  he  regarded  Charley  and  myself  with  a  suspicious 


THE   FROZEN   STREAM.  177 

gloom.  We  felt  it,  but  beyond  talking  to  each  other  about  it, 
and  conjecturing  its  cause,  we  could  do  nothing.  It  made 
Charley  very  unhappy  at  times,  deepening  the  shadow  which 
brooded  over  his  mind  ;  for  his  moral  skin  was  as  sensitive  to 
changes  in  the  moral  atmosphere  as  the  most  sensitive  of 
plants  to  those  in  the  physical.  But  unhealthy  conditions  in 
the  smallest  communities  cannot  last  long  without  generating 
vapors  which  result  in  some  kind  of  outburst. 

The  other  boys,  naturally  enough,  were  displeased  with  us 
for  holding  so  much  together.  They  attributed  it  to  some 
fancy  of  superiority,  whereas  there  was  nothing  in  it  beyond 
the  simplest  preference  for  each  other's  society.  We  were 
alike  enough  to  understand  each  other,  and  unlike  enough  to 
interest  and  aid  each  other.  Besides,  w^e  did  not  care  much 
for  the  sports  in  which  boys  usually  explode  their  superfluous 
energy.  I  preferred  a  walk  and  a  talk  with  Charley  to 
anything  else. 

I  may  here  mention  that  these  talks  had  nearly  cured  me 
of  castle-building.  To  spin  yarns  for  Charley's  delectation 
would  have  been  absurd.  He  cared  for  nothing  but  the  truth. 
And  yet  he  could  never  assure  himself  that  anything  was  true. 
The  more  likely  a  thing  looked  to  be  true,  the  more  anxious 
was  he  that  it  should  be  unassailable ;  and  his  fertile  mind 
would  in  as  many  moments  throw  a  score  of  objections  at  it, 
looking  after  each  with  eager  eyes  as  if  pleading  for  a  refu- 
tation. It  was  the  very  love  of  what  was  good  that  generated 
in  him  doubt  and  anxiety. 

When  our  schoolfellows  perceived  that  Mr.  Forest  also  was 
dissatisfied  with  us,  their  displeasure  grew  to  indignation  ;  and 
we  did  not  endure  its  manifestations  without  a  feeling  of  reflex 
defiance. 


12 


178  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDlE. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

AN   EXPLOSION. 

One  spring  morning  we  had  got  up  early  and  sauntered  out 
together.  I  remember  perfectly  what  our  talk  was  about. 
Charley  had  started  the  question :  "  How  could  it  be  just  to 
hardeu  Pharaoh's  heart  and  then  punish  him  for  what  came 
of  it?''  I,  who  had  been  brought  up  without  any  superstitious 
reverence  for  the  Bible,  suggested  that  the  narrator  of  the  story 
might  be  accountable  for  the  contradiction,  and  simply  that  it 
was  not  true  that  God  hardened  Pharaoh's  heart.  Strange  to 
say,  Charley  was  rather  shocked  at  this.  He  had  as  yet 
received  the  dogma  of  the  infallibility  of  the  Bible  without 
thinking  enough  about  it  to  question  it.  Nor  did  it  now  occur 
to  him  what  a  small  affair  it  was  to  find  a  book  fallible,  com- 
pared with  finding  the  God  of  whom  the  book  spoke,  fallible 
upon  its  testimony — for  such  was  surely  the  dilemma.  Men 
have  been  able  to  exist  without  a  Bible:  if  there  be  a  God  it 
must  be  in  and  through  Him  that  all  men  live ;  only  if  he  be 
not  true,  then  in  Him,  and  not  in  the  first  Adam,  all  men  die. 

We  were  talking  away  about  this,  no  doubt  after  a  suffi- 
ciently crude  manner,  as  we  approached  the  house,  unaware 
that  we  had  lingered  too  long.  The  boys  were  coming  out 
from  breakfast  for  a  game  before  school. 

Amongst  them  was  one  of  the  name  of  Home,  who  consid- 
ered himself  superior  from  his  connection  with  the  Scotch 
Homes.  He  was  a  big,  strong,  pale-faced,  handsome  boy,  with 
the  least  bit  of  a  sneer  always  hovering  upon  his  upper  lip. 
Charley  was  half  a  head  shorter  than  he,  and  I  was  half  a 
head  shorter  than  Charley.  As  we  passed  him,  he  said  aloud, 
addressing  the  boy  next  him — 

"  There  they  go — a  pair  of  sneaks !" 

Charley  turned  upon  him  at  once,  his  face  in  a  glow. 


^N   EXPLOSION.  179 

"Home,"  he  said,  "  no  gentleman  would  say  so." 

"  And  why  not  ?"  said  Home,  turniug  and  striding  up  to 
Charley  in  a  magnificent  manner. 

"Because  there  is  no  ground  for  the  assertion,"  said  Charley. 

"Then  you  mean  to  say  I  am  a  liar." 

"I  mean  to  say,"  returned  Charley,  with  more  promptitude 
than  I  could  have  expected  of  him,  "  that  if  you  are  a  gentle- 
man you  will  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  There  is  my  apology  then !"  said  Home,  and  struck  Char- 
ley a  blow  on  the  head  which  laid  him  on  the  ground.  I  be- 
lieve he  repented  it  the  moment  he  had  done  it. 

I  caught  one  glimpse  of  the  blood  pouring  over  the  transpa- 
rent blue-veined  skin,  and  rushed  at  Home  in  a  transport  of 
farj. 

I  never  was  brave  one  step  beyond  being  able  to  do  what 
must  be  done  and  bear  what  must  be  borne;  and  now  it  was 
not  courage  that  inspired  me,  but  a  righteous  wrath. 

I  did  my  best,  got  a  good  many  hard  blows,  and  planted  not 
one  in  return,  for  I  had  never  fought  in  my  life.  I  do  believe 
Home  spared  me,  conscious  of  wrong.  Meantime  some  of 
them  had  lifted  Charley  and  carried  him  into  the  house. 

Before  I  was  thoroughly  mauled,  which  must  have  been  the 
final  result,  for  I  would  not  give  in,  the  master  appeared,  and 
in  a  voice  such  as  I  had  never  heard  from  him  before,  ordered 
us  all  into  the  schoolroom. 

"  Fighting  like  bullies !"  he  said.  "  I  thought  my  pupils 
were  gentlemen  at  least !" 

Perhaps  dimly  aware  that  he  had  himself  given  some  occa- 
sion to  this  outbreak,  and  imagining  in  his  heart  a  show  of 
justice,  he  seized  Home  by  the  collar,  and  gave  him  a  terrible 
cut  with  the  riding-whip  which  he  had  caught  up  in  his  anger. 
Home  cried  out,  and  the  same  moment  Charley  appeared,  pale 
as  death. 

"Oh,  sir !"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the  master's  arm,  ap- 
pealingly,  "  I  was  to  blame  too." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  returned  Mr.  Forest.  "  I  shall  settle  with 
you  presently.     Get  away." 


180  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Now,  sir !"  he  continued,  turning  to  me — and  held  the  whip 
suspended,  as  if  waiting  a  word  from  me  to  goad  him  on.  He 
looked  something  else  than  a  gentleman  himself  just  then.  It 
was  a  sudden  outbreak  of  the  beast  in  him. 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you  punish  me,  sir,  if  you  please? 
Wliat  have  I  done  ?"  I  said. 

His  answer  was  such  a  stinging  blow  that  for  a  moment  I 
was  bewildered,  and  everything  reeled  about  me.  But  I  did 
not  cry  out — I  know  that,  for  I  asked  two  of  the  fellows  after. 

"You  prate  about  justice!"  he  said.  "  I  will  let  you  know 
what  justice  means — to  you  at  least." 

And  down  came  a  second  cut  as  bad  as  the  first.  My  blood 
was  up. 

"  If  this  is  justice,  then  there  is  no  God,"  I  said. 

He  stood  aghast.     I  went  on. 

"  If  there  be  a  God " 

"1/  there  be  a  God  !"  he  shrieked,  and  sprang  towards  ma 

I  did  not  move  a  step. 

"  I  hope  there  is,"  I  said,  as  he  seized  me  again ;  "  for  you 
are  unjust." 

I  remember  only  a  fierce  succession  of  blows.  With  Voltaire 
and  the  French  revolution  present  to  his  mind  in  all  their 
horror,  he  had  been  nourishing  in  his  house  a  toad  of  the  same 
spawn !  He  had  been  remiss,  but  would  now  compel  those 
whom  his  neglect  had  injured  to  pay  ofi"  his  arrears !  A  most 
orthodox  conclusion  !  but  it  did  me  little  harm  :  it  did  not 
make  me  think  that  God  was  unjust,  for  my  uncle,  not  Mr. 
Forest,  was  my  type  of  Christian.  The  harm  it  did  was  of 
another  sort — and  to  Charley,  not  to  me. 

Of  course,  while  under  the  hands  of  the  executioner,  I  could 
not  observe  what  was  going  on  around  me.  When  I  began  to 
awake  from  the  absorption  of  my  pain  and  indignation,  I  found 
myself  in  my  room.  I  had  been  ordered  thither,  and  had 
mechanically  obeyed.  I  was  on  my  bed,  staring  at  the  door, 
at  which  I  had  become  aw^are  of  a  gentleman  tapping. 

"Come  in,"  I  said;  and  Charley — who,  although  it  was  his 
room  as  much  as  mine,  never  entered  when  he  thought  I  was 


AN   EXPLOSION.  181 

there  without  knocking  at  the  door — appeared,  with  the  face 
of  a  dead  man.     Sore  as  I  was,  I  jumped  up. 

"  The  brute  has  not  been  thrashing  you,  Charley !"  I  cried 
in  a  wrath  that  gave  me  the  strength  of  a  giant.     With  that 
terrible  bruise  above  his  temple  from  Home's  fist,  none  but  a 
devil  could  have  dared  to  lay  hands  upon  him ! 

''  No,  Wilfrid,"  he  answered ;  "  no  such  honor  for  me  !  I 
am  disgraced  for  ever !" 

He  hid  his  wan  face  in  his  thin  hands. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Charley  ?"  I  said.  "  You  cannot  have 
told  a  lie !" 

"  No,  Wilfrid.  But  it  doesn't  matter  now.  I  don't  care  for 
myself  any  more." 

"  Then,  Charley,  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"You  are  always  so  kind,  Wilfrid!"  he  returned  with  a 
hopelessness  which  seemed  almost  coldness. 

"  Charley,"  I  said,  "  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened  " 

"  Happened !"  he  cried.  "  Hasn't  that  man  been  lashing  at 
you  like  a  dog,  and  I  didn't  rush  at  him,  and  if  I  couldn't  fight, 
being  a  milksop,  then  bite  and  kick  and  scratch,  and  take  my 
"share  of  it?  O  God!"  he  cried  in  agony,  "if  I  had  but  a 
chance  again  I  But  nobody  ever  has  more  than  one  chance  in 
this  world.  He  may  damn  me  now  when  he  likes :  I  don't  care." 

"  Charley !  Charley  !"  I  cried ;  "  you're  as  bad  as  Mr.  Forest. 
Are  you  to  say  such  things  about  God,  when  you  know  nothing 
of  him  ?  He  may  be  as  good  a  God,  after  all,  as  even  we 
should  like  him  to  be."  / 

"  But  Mr.  Forest  is  a  clergyman.'* 

"  And  God  was  the  God  of  Abraham  before  ever  there  was 
a  clergyman  to  take  his  name  in  vain,"  I  cried;  for  I  was 
half  mad  with  the  man  who  had  thus  wounded  my  Charley. 
"  I  am  content  with  you,  Charley.  You  are  my  best  and  only 
friend.  That  is  all  nonsense  about  attacking  Forest.  What 
could  you  have  done,  you  know  ? — Don't  talk  such  rubbish." 

"I  might  have  taken  my  share  with  you,'*  said  Charley, 
and  again  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 


182  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Come,  Charley,"  I  said,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  fresh 
isave  of  manhood  swept  through  my  soul ;  "  you  and  I  will 
take  our  share  together  a  hundred  times  yet.  I  have  done 
my  part  now ;  your's  will  come  now." 

"  But  to  think  of  not  sharing  your  disgrace,  Wilfrid !" 

"  Disgrace  !''  I  said,  drawing  myself  up,  "  where  was  that  ?" 

"  You  have  heen  beaten,"  he  said. 

"  Every  stripe  w'as  a  badge  of  honor,"  I  said,  "  for  I  neither 
deserved  it  nor  cried  out  against  it.     I  feel  no  disgrace." 

"  Well,  I've  missed  the  honor,"  said  Charley ;  "  but  that's 
nothing,  so  you  have  it.  But  not  to  share  your  disgrace 
would  have  been  mean.  And  it's  all  one ;  for  I  thought  it 
was  disgrace  and  I  did  not  share  it.  I  am  a  coward  forever, 
Wilfrid." 

"Nonsense!  He  never  gave  you  a  chance.  /  never 
thought  of  striking  back ;  how  should  you  f 

"  I  will  be  your  slave,  Wilfrid !  You  are  so  good,  and  I 
am  so  unworthy." 

He  put  his  arms  around  me,  laid  his  head  on  my  shoulder, 
and  sobbed.  I  did  what  more  I  could  to  comfort  him,  and 
gradually  he  grew  calm.    At  length  he  whispered  in  my  ear — ■ 

"  After  all,  Wilfrid,  I  do  believe  I  was  horror-struck,  and  it 
wasnH  cowardice  pure  and  simple." 

"  I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  I  said.  ^'  I  love  you  more  than 
ever." 

"  Oh  Wilfrid  !  I  should  have  gone  mad  by  this  time  but 
for  you.  Will  you  be  my  friend  whatever  happens  ? — Even 
if  I  should  be  a  coward  after  all?" 

"  Indeed  I  will,  Charley. — ^^\^hat  do  you  think  Forest  will 
do  next?" 

We  resolved  not  to  go  down  until  we  were  sent  for ;  and 
then  to  be  perfectly  quiet,  not  speaking  to  any  one  unless  we 
were  spoken  to ;  and  at  dinner  we  carried  out  our  resolution. 

When  bedtime  came,  we  went  as  usual  to  make  our  bow  to 
Mr.  Forest. 

"  Curabermede,"  he  said  sternly,  "  you  sleep  in  No.  5  until 
further  orders." 


AN   EXPLOSION.  183 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  I  said,  and  went,  but  lingered  long 
enough  to  hear  the  fate  of  Charley. 

"  Home,"  said  Mr.  Forest,  "  you  go  to  No.  3." 

That  was  our  room. 

"Home,"  I  said,  having  lingered  on  the  stairs  until  h© 
appeared,  "  you  don't  bear  me  a  grudge,  do  you  ?" 

"  It  was  my  fault,"  said  Home.  "  I  had  no  right  to  pitch 
mto  you.  Only  you're  such  a  cool  beggar !  But  by  Jove  I 
didn't  think  Forest  would  have  been  so  unfair.  If  you  for- 
give me,  I'll  forgive  you." 

"  If  I  hadn't  stood  up  to  you  I  couldn't,"  I  returned.  "  I 
knew  I  hadn't  a  chance.     Besides,  I  hadn't  any  breakfast." 

"I  was  a  brute,"  said  Home. 

"Oh  I  don't  mind  for  myself;  but  there's  Osborne  I  I 
Wonder  you  could  hit  himy 

*'  He  shouldn't  have  jawed  me,"  said  Home. 

"  But  you  did  first." 

We  had  reached  the  door  of  the  room  which  had  been 
Home's  and  was  now  to  be  mine,  and  went  in  together. 

"Didn't  you,  noAV?"  I  insisted. 

"Well  I  did ;  I  confess  I  did :  and  it  was  veryplucky  of  him." 

"  Tell  him  that.  Home,"  I  said.  "  For  God's  sake  tell  him 
that.  It  will  comfort  him.  You  must  be  kind  to  him, 
Home.     We're  not  so  bad  as  Forest  takes  us  for." 

"  I  will,"  said  Home. 

And  he  kept  his  word. 

We  were  never  allowed  to  share  the  same  room  again, 
and  school  was  not  what  it  had  been  to  either  of  us. 

Within  a  few  weeks,  Charley's  father,  to  our  common  dis- 
may, suddenly  appeared,  and  the  next  morning  took  him 
away.  What  he  said  to  Charley  I  do  not  know.  He  did  not 
take  the  least  notice  of  me,  and  I  believe  would  have  pre- 
vented Cliarley  from  saying  a  good-bye  to  me.  But  just  as 
they  were  going,  Charley  left  his  father's  side,  and  came  up  to 
me  with  a  flush  on  his  face,  and  a  flash  in  his  eye  that  made 
him  look  more  manly  and  handsome  than  I  had  ever  seen 
him,  and  shook  hands  with  me,  saying — 


184  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"It's  all  right— isn't  it,  Wilfrid?" 

"  It  is  all  right,  Charley,  come  what  will,"  I  answered. 

"  Good-bye,  then,  AVilfrid." 

"  Good-bye,  Charley." 

And  so  we  parted, 

I  do  not  care  to  say  one  word  more  about  the  school.  I 
continued  there  for  another  year  and  a  half.  Partly  in 
misery,  partly  in  growing  eagerness  after  knowledge,  I  gave 
myself  to  my  studies  with  more  diligence.  Mr.  Forest  began 
to  be  pleased  with  me,  and  I  have  no  doubt  plumed 
himself  on  the  vigorous  measures  by  which  he  had  nipped  the 
bud  of  my  infidelity.  For  my  part  I  drew  no  nearer  to  him, 
for  I  could  not  respect  or  trust  him  after  his  injustice.  I  did 
my  work  for  its  own  sake,  uninfluenced  by  any  desire  to  please 
him.     There  was  in  fact  no  true  relation  between  us  any  more. 

I  communicated  nothing  of  what  had  happened  to  my 
uncle,  because  Mr.  Forest's  custom  was  to  read  every  letter 
before  it  left  the  house.  But  I  longed  for  the  day  when  I 
could  tell  the  whole  story  to  the  great,  simple-hearted  man. 


ONLY  A  LINK.  185 


CHAPTEK  XXIII. 

ONLY  A   LINK. 

Before  my  return  to  England,  I  found  that  familiarity 
with  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a  more  magnificent  nature  had 
removed  my  past  life  to  a  great  distance.  AVhat  had  inter- 
ested my  childhood  had  strangely  dwindled,  yet  gathered  a 
new  interest  from  its  far-off  and  forsaken  look.  So  much  did 
my  past  wear  to  me  now  the  look  of  something  read  in  a 
story,  that  I  am  haunted  with  a  doubt  whether  I  may  not 
have  communicated  too  much  of  this  appearance  to  my 
description  of  it,  although  I  have  kept  as  true  as  my  recollec- 
tions would  enable  me.  The  outlines  must  be  correct ;  if  the 
coloring  be  unreal,  it  is  because  of  the  haze  which  hangs 
about  the  memories  of  the  time. 

The  revisiting  of  old  scenes  is  like  walking  into  a  mauso- 
leum. Everything  is  a  monument  of  something  dead  and 
gone.  For  w^e  die  daily.  Happy  those  who  daily  come  to 
life  as  well ! 

I  returned  with  a  clear  conscience,  for  not  only  had  I  as  yet 
escaped  corruption,  but  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  at 
least  I  had  worked  well.  If  Mr.  Forest's  letter,  which  I  car- 
ried to  my  uncle,  contained  any  hint  intended  to  my  disad- 
vantage, it  certainly  fell  dead  on  his  mind ;  for  he  treated  me 
with  a  consideration  and  respect  which  at  once  charmed 
and  humbled  me. 

I  fully  expected  that  now  at  least  he  would  tell  me  the 
history  of  the  watch  and  the  sword  ;  but  even  yet  I  was  dis- 
appointed. But  I  doubt  whether,  indeed,  he  could  have 
given  me  any  particulars.  One  day,  as  we  were  walking 
together  over  the  fields,  I  told  him  the  whole  story  of  the  loss 
of  the  weapon  at  Moldwarp  Hall.  Up  to  the  time  of  my 
leaving  for  Switzerland  I  had  shrunk  from  any  reference  to 


186  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

the  subject,  so  paiui'iil  was  it  to  me,  and  so  coDvinccd  was  1 
that  his  sympathy  would  be  confiued  to  a  compassionate  smile 
and  a  few  words  of  condolence.  But  glancing  at  his  face  now 
and  then  as  I  told  the  tale,  I  discovered  more  of  interest  in 
the  play  of  his  features  than  I  had  expected ;  and  when  he 
learned  that  it  was  absolutely  gone  from  me,  his  face  flushed 
with  what  seemed  anger.  For  some  moments  after  I  had 
finished,  he  was  silent.     At  length  he  said, 

"It  is  a  strange  story,  Wilfrid,  my  boy.  There  must  be 
some  explanation  of  it,  however." 

He  then  questioned  me  about  Mr.  Close,  for  suspicion 
pointed  in  his  direction.  I  was  in  great  hopes  he  would  follow 
njy  narrative  with  what  he  knew  of  the  sword,  but  he  was 
still  silent,  and  I  could  not  question  him,  for  I  had  long  sus- 
pected that  its  history  had  to  do  with  the  secret  which  he 
wanted  me  to  keep  from  myself. 

The  very  day  of  my  arrival,  I  went  up  to  my  grandmother's 
room,  which  I  found  just  as  she  had  left  it.  There  stood  her 
easy-chair,  there  her  bed,  there  the  old  bureau.  The  room 
looked  far  less  mysterious  now  that  she  was  not  there  ;  but  it 
looked  painfully  deserted.  One  thing  alone  was  still  as  it 
were  enveloped  in  its  ancient  atmosphere — the  bureau.  I 
tried  to  open  it — with  some  trembling,  I  confess ;  but  only  the 
drawers  below  were  unlocked,  and  in  them  I  found  nothing 
but  garments  of  old-fashioned  stuffs,  which  I  dared  not  touch. 

But  the  day  of  childish  romance  was  over,  and  life  itself 
was  too  strong  and  fresh  to  allow  me  to  brood  on  the  past  for 
more  than  an  occasional  half-hour.  My  thoughts  were  full 
of  Oxford,  whither  my  uncle  had  resolved  I  should  go  ;  and  I 
worked  hard  in  preparation. 

"  I  have  not  much  money  to  spare,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  have  insured  my  life  for  a  sum  sufficient  to  provide  for  your 
aunt,  if  she  should  survive  me ;  and  after  her  death  it  will 
come  to  you.  Of  course,  the  old  house  and  the  park,  which 
have  been  in  the  family  for  more  years  than  I  can  tell,  w'ill  be 
yours  at  my  death.  A  good  part  of  the  farm  was  once  ours 
too,  but  not  for  these  many  years.     I  could  not  recommend 


ONLY    A   LINK.  187 

you  to  keep  on  the  farm ;  but  I  confess  I  should  be  sorry  if  you 
were  to  part  with  our  little  place,  although  I  do  not  doubt  you 
might  get  a  good  sum  for  it  from  Sir  Giles,  to  whose  park  it 
would  be  a  desirable  addition.  I  believe,  at  one  time,  the 
refusal  to  part  with  the  poor  little  vineyard  of  Naboth  was 
cause  of  great  offence,  even  of  open  feud  between  the  great 
family  at  the  Hall  and  the  yeomen  who  were  your  ancestors ; 
but  poor  men  may  be  as  unwilling  as  rich  to  break  one  strand 
of  the  cord  that  binds  them  to  the  past.  But,  of  course,  when 
you  come  into  the  property,  you  will  dp  as  you  see  fit  with 
your  own." 

"  You  don't  think,  uncle,  I  would  sell  this  house,  or  the  field 
it  stands  in,  for  all  the  Moldwarp  estate  ?  I,  too,  have  m^y 
share  of  pride  in  the  family,  although  as  yet  I  know  nothing 
of  its  history." 

"  Surely,  Wilfrid,  the  feeling  for  one's  Dwn  people  who  have 
gone  before,  is  not  necessarily  pride  !  '* 

"  It  doesn't  much  matter  what  you  call  it,  uncle." 

"  Yes,  it  does,  my  boy.  Either  you  call  it  by  the  right  name 
or  by  the  wrong  name.  If  your  feeling  is  pride,  then  I  am 
not  objecting  to  the  name,  but  the  thing.  If  your  feeling  is 
not  pride,  why  call  a  good  thing  by  a  bad  name?  But  to 
return  to  our  subject :  my  hope  is,  that  if  I  give  you  a  good 
education,  you  will  make  your  own  Avay.  You  might,  you 
know,  let  the  park,  as  we  call  it,  for  a  term  of  years." 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  letting  the  park,"  I  answered,  "  for  a 
little  while ;  but  nothing  should  ever  make  me  let  the  dear 
old  house.     What  should  I  do,  if  I  wanted  it  to  die  in  ?  " 

The  old  man  smiled,  evidently  not  ill-pleased.  "  What  do 
you  say  to  the  bar  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  would  rather  not,"  I  answered. 

"  Would  you  prefer  the  church  ?"  he  asked,  eyeing  me  a 
little  doubtfully. 

"  No,  certainly  uncle,"  I  answered.  "  I  should  want  to  be 
surer  of  a  good  many  things  before  I  dared  teach  them  to 
other  people." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  my  boy.     The  fear  did  cros«  my  mind 


188  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

for  a  moment,  that  you  might  bo  iuclined  to  take  to  the 
church  as  a  profession,  which  seems  to  me  the  worst  kind  of 
infidelity.  A  thousand  times  rather  would  I  have  you  doubt- 
ful about  what  is  to  me  the  highest  truth,  than  regarding  it 
with  the  indifierence  of  those  who  see  in  it  only  the  prospect 
of  a  social  position  and  livelihood.  Have  you  any  plan  of 
your  own  ?" 

"  I  have  heard,"  I  answered  circuitously,  "  that  many  bar- 
risters have  to  support  themselves  by  literary  work  for  years 
before  their  own  profession  begin  to  show  them  favor.  I 
should  prefer  going  in  for  the  writing  at  once." 

"  It  must  be  a  hard  struggle  either  way,"  he  replied ;  "  but 
I  should  not  leave  you  without  something  to  fall  back  upon. 
Tell  me  what  makes  you  think  you  could  be  an  author?" 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  presumptuous,'*  I  answered,  "  but  as  often 
as  I  think  of  what  I  am  to  do,  that  is  the  first  thing  that 
occurs  to  me.  I  suppose,"  I  added  laughing,  "  that  the  favor 
with  which  my  schoolfellows  at  Mr.  Elder's  used  to  receive  my 
stories,  is  to  blame  for  it.  I  used  to  tell  them  by  the  hour 
together." 

"  Well,"  said  my  uncle,  "  that  proves  at  least  that  if  you 
had  anything  to  say,  you  might  be  able  to  say  it ;  but  I  am 
afraid  it  proves  nothing  more." 

"  Nothing  more,  I  admit,  I  only  mentioned  it  to  account 
for  the  notion." 

"I  quite  understand  you,  my  boy.  Meantime,  the  best 
thing  in  any  case  will  be  Oxford.  I  will  do  what  I  can  to 
make  it  an  easier  life  for  you  than  I  found  it." 

Having  heard  nothing  of  Charley  Osborne  since  he  left  Mr. 
Forest's,  I  went  one  day,  very  soon  after  my  return,  to  call  on 
Mr.  Elder,  partly  in  the  hope  of  learning  something  about  him. 
I  found  Mrs.  Elder  unchanged,  but  could  not  help  fancying  a 
difference  in  Mr.  Elder's  behaviour,  which,  after  finding  I  could 
draw  nothing  from  him  concerning  Charley,  I  attributed  to  Mr. 
Osborne's  evil  report,  and  returned  foiled  and  vexed.  I  told 
my  uncle,  with  some  circumstance,  the  whole  story ;  explain- 
ing how,   although    unable    to    combat    the    doubts   which 


ONLY    A    LINK.  189 

occasioned  Charley's  unhappiness,  I  had  yet  always  hung  to 
the  side  of  believing. 

"  You  did  right  to  do  no  more,  my  boy,"  said  my  uncle  ; 
"  and  it  is  clear  you  have  been  misunderstood — and  ill-used 
besides.     But  every  wrong  will  be  set  right  some  day." 

My  aunt  showed  me  now  far  more  consideration — I  do  not 
say — than  sho  felt  before.  A  curious  kind  of  respect  mingled 
with  hcF  kindness,  which  seemed  a  slighter  form  of  the  obser- 
vance with  which  she  constantly  regarded  my  uncle. 

My  study  was  pretty  hard  and  continuous.  I  had  no  tutor 
to  direct  me  or  take  any  of  the  responsibility  off  me. 

I  walked  to  the  Hall  one  morning,  to  see  Mrs.  Wilson. 
She  was  kind,  but  more  stiff  even  than  before.  From  her  I 
learned  two  things  of  interest.  The  first,  which  beyond  mea- 
Bure  delighted  me,  was  that  Charley  was  at  Oxford — had  been 
there  a  year.  The  second  was  that  Clara  was  at  school  in  Lon- 
don. Mrs.  "Wilson  shut  her  mouth  very  primly  after  answering 
my  question  concerning  her ;  and  I  went  no  further  in  that 
direction.  I  took  no  trouble  to  ask  her  concerning  the  relation- 
ship of  which  Mr.  Coningham  had  spoken.  I  knew  already 
from  my  uncle  that  it  was  a  fact,  but  Mrs.  Wilson  did  not 
behave  in  such  a  manner  as  to  render  me  inclined  to  broach 
the  subject.  If  she  wished  it  to  remain  a  secret  from  me,  sh« 
should  be  allowed  to  imagine  it  such. 


190  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


CHARLEY  AT  OXFORD. 


I  HAVE  no  time  in  this  selection  and  combination  of  the 
parts  of  my  story  which  are  more  especially  my  history,  to 
dwell  npon  that  portion  of  it  which  refers  to  my  own  life  at 
Oxford.  I  was  so  much  of  a  student  of  books  while  there,  and 
had  so  little  to  do  with  any  of  the  men  except  Charley,  that 
save  as  it  bore  upon  my  intellect,  Oxford  had  little  special 
share  in  what  life  has  made  of  me,  and  may  in  the  press  of 
other  matter  be  left  out.  Had  I  time,  however,  to  set  forth 
what  I  know  of  my  own  development  more  particularly,  I 
could  not  pass  over  the  influence  of  external  Oxford,  the  archi- 
tecture and  general  surroundings  of  which  I  recognized  as 
affecting  me  more  than  anything  I  had  yet  met,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  Swiss  mountains,  pine-woods  and  rivers.  It  is,  how- 
ever, imperative  to  set  forth  the  peculiar  character  of  .my  rela- 
tion to  and  intercourse*  with  Charley,  in  order  that  what  fol- 
lows may  be  properly  understood. 

For  no  other  reason  than  that  my  uncle  had  been  there  be- 
fore me,  I  went  to  Corpus  Christi,  while  Charley  was  at  Exe- 
ter. It  was  some  days  before  w^e  met,  for  I  had  twice  failed  in 
my  attempts  to  find  him.  At  length,  one  afternoon,  as  I  entered 
the  quadrangle  to  make  a  third  essay,  there  he  was  coming 
towards  the  gate  with  a  companion. 

When  he  caught  sight  of  me,  he  advanced  with  a  quick  yet 
hesitating  step — a  step  with  a  question  in  it:  he  was  not  quite 
sure  of  me.  He  was  now  approaching  six  feet  in  height,  and 
graceful,  though  not  exactly  dignified  carriage.  His  com- 
plexion remained  as  pale  and  his  eyes  as  blue  as  before.  The 
pallor  flushed  and  the  blue  sparkled  as  he  made  a  fcw  final 
and  long  strides  towards  me.  The  grasp  of  the  hand  he  gave 
me  was  powerful,  but  broken  into  sudden  almost  quivering  re- 
laxations and  compressions.     I  could  not  help  fancying  also 


CHARLEY   AT    OXFORD.  191 

that  he  was  using  some  little  effort  to  keep  his  eyes  steady  upon 
mine.  Altogether,  I  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  our  first  meet- 
ing, and  had  a  strong  impression  that  if  our  friendship  was  to 
be  resumed,  it  was  about  to  begin  a  new  course,  not  building 
itself  exactly  on  the  old  foundations,  but  starting  afresh,  lie 
looked  almost  on  the  way  to  become  a  man  of  the  world.  Per- 
haps, however,  the  companionship  he  was  in  had  something  to 
do  with  this,  for  he  was  so  nervously  responsive,  that  he  would 
unconsciously  take  on  for  the  moment  any  ajjpearance  charac- 
terizing those  about  him. 

His  companion  was  a  little  taller,  and  stouter-built  than  he; 
with  a  bearing  and  gait  of  conscious  importance,  not  so  marked 
as  to  be  at  once  offensive.  The  upper  part  of  his  face  was  fiiie, 
the  nose  remarkably  so,  while  the  lower  part  was  decidedly 
coarse,  the  chin  too  large,  and  the  mouth  having  little  form, 
except  in  the  first  movement  of  utterance,  when  an  unpleasant 
curl  took  possession  of  the  upper  lip,  which  I  afterwards  in- 
terpreted as  a  doubt  disguising  itself  in  a  sneer.  There  was 
also  in  his  manner  a  degree  of  self-assertion  which  favored  the 
same  conclusion.  His  hands  were  very  large,  a  pair  of  merely 
blanched  plebeian  fists,  with  thumbs  much  turned  back— and 
altogether  ungainly.  He  wore  very  tight  gloves,  and  never 
shook  hands  when  he  could  help  it.  His  feet  were  scarcely  so 
bad  in  form ;  still  by  no  pretence  could  they  be  held  to  indi- 
cate breeding.  His  manner,  where  he  wished  to  conciliate,  was 
pleasing;  but  to  me  it  was  overbearing  and  unpleasant.  He 
was  the  only  son  of  Sir  Giles  Brotherton,  of  Moldwarp  Hall. 
Charley  and  he  did  not  belong  to  the  same  college,  but,  unlike 
as  they  were  they  had  somehow  taken  to  each  other.  I  presume 
it  was  the  decision  of  this  manner  that  attracted  the  wavering 
nature  of  Charley,  who,  with  generally  active  impulses,  was 
yet  always  in  doubt  when  a  moment  requiring  action  arrived. 

Charley,  having  spoken  to  me,  turned  and  introduced  me  to 
his  friend.     Geoffrey  Brotherton  merely  nodded. 

"  AYe  were  at  school  together  in  Switzerland,"  said  Charley. 

"  Yes,"  said  Geoffrey,  in  a  half-interrogatory,  half-assenting 
tone. 


192  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"Till  I  found  your  card  in  my  box,  I  never  heard  of  your 
coming,"  said  Charley. 

"  It  was  not  my  fault,"  I  answered.  "  I  did  what  I  could  to 
find  out  something  about  you,  but  all  in  vain." 

"  Paternal  precaution,  I  believe,"  he  said,  with  something 
that  approached  a  grimace. 

Now,  although  I  had  little  special  reason  to  love  Mr.  Os- 
borne, and  knew  him  to  be  a  tyrant,  I  knew  also  that  my  old 
Charley  could  not  have  thus  coolly  uttered  a  disrespectful  word 
of  him;  and  I  had  therefore  a  painful  though  at  the  same  time 
an  undefined  conviction  that  some  degree  of  moral  degeneracy 
must  have  taken  place  before  he  could  express  himself  as  now. 
To'many,such  a  remark  will  appear  absurd,  but  I  am  confident 
that  disrespect  for  the  preceding  generation,  and  esj^ecially  for 
those  in  it  nearest  to  ourselves,  is  a  sure  sign  of  relaxing  dig- 
nity, and,  in  any  extended  manifestation,  an  equally  sure 
symptom  of  national  and  political  decadence.  My  reader 
knows,  however,  that  there  was  much  to  be  said  in  excuse  of 
Charley. 

His  friend  sauntered  away,  and  we  went  on  talking.  My 
heart  longed  to  rest  with  his  for  a  moment  on  the  past. 

"  I  had  a  dreary  time  of  it  after  you  left,  Charley,"  I  said. 

"  Not  so  dreary  as  I  had,  Wilfrid,  I  am  certain.  You  had 
at  least  the  mountains  to  comfort  you.  Anywhere  is  better  than 
at  home,  with  a  meal  of  Bible  oil  and  vinegar  twice  a  day  for 
certain,  and  a  wine-glassful  of  it  now  and  then  in  between. 
Damnation's  better  than  a  spoony  heaven.  To  be  away  from 
home  is  heaven  enough  for  me." 

"  But  your  mother,  Charley !"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"  My  mother  is  an  angel.  I  could  almost  be  good  for  her 
sake.  But  I  never  could,  I  never  can  get  near  her.  My  father 
reads  every  letter  she  writes  before  it  comes  to  me — I  know  that 
by  the  style  of  it ;  and  I'm  equally  certain  he  reads  every  letter 
of  mine  before  it  reaches  her." 

"  Is  your  sister  at  home?" 

"  No.  She's  at  school  at  Clapham — being  sand-papered  into 
a  saint,  I  suppose." 


CHARLEY   AT   OXFORD.  193 

His  mouth  twitched  and  quivered.  He  was  not  pleased  with 
himself  for  talking  as  he  did. 

"  Your  father  means  it  for  the  best,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  that.  He  means  his  best.  If  I  thought  it  was 
the  best,  I  should  cut  my  throat  and  have  done  with  it." 

"  But,  Charley,  couldn't  we  do  something  to  find  out,  after 
all?" 

"  Find  out  what,  Wilfrid?" 

"  The  best  thing,  you  know ; — what  we  are  here  for." 

"  I'm  sick  of  it  aU,  Wilfrid.  I've  tried  till  I'm  sick  of  it. 
If  you  should  find  out  anything,  you  can  let  me  know.  I  am 
busy  trying  not  to  think.  I  find  that  quite  enough.  If  I  were 
to  think,  I  should  go  mad." 

"  Oh,  Charley  !  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,"  1 
exclaimed ;  but  there  was  a  glitter  in  his  eye  which  I  did  not 
like,  and  which  made  me  anxious  to  change  the  subject.  "  Don't 
you  like  being  here  ?"  I  asked,  in  sore  want  of  something 
to  say. 

"  Yes,  weU  enough,"  he  replied.  "But  I  don't  see  what's  to 
come  of  it,  for  I  can't  work.  Even  if  my  father  were  a  mil- 
lionaire, I  couldn't  go  on  living  on  him.  The  sooner  that  is 
over,  the  better !" 

He  was  looking  down,  and  gnawing  at  that  tremulous  upper 
lip.     I  felt  miserable. 

"I  wish  we  were  at  the  same  college,  Charley!"  I  said. 

"  It's  better  as  it  is,"  he  rejoined.  "  I  should  do  you  no  good. 
You  go  in  for  reading,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Well,  I  do.  I  mean  my  uncle  to  have  the  worth  of  his 
money." 

Charley  looked  no  less  miserable  than  I  felt.  I  saw  that  his 
conscience  was  speaking,  and  I  knew  he  was  the  last  in  the 
world  to  succeed  in  excusing  himself  But  I  understood  him 
better  than  he  understood  himself,  and  believed  that  his  idle- 
ness arose  from  the  old  unrest,  the  unweariness  of  that  never 
satisfied  questioning  which  the  least  attempt  at  thought  was 
sure  to  awaken.  Once  invaded  by  a  question,  Charley  must 
answer  it,  or  fail  and  fall  into  a  stupor.  Not  an  ode  of  Horace 
13 


194  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

could  he  read  without  finding  liiniself  phinged  in  metaphysics. 
Enamored  of  repose  above  all  things,  he  was  from  every  side 
stung  to  inquiry  which  seldom  indeed  afforded  what  seemed 
solution.  Hence,  in  part  at  least,  it  came  that  he  had  begun 
to  study  not  merely  how  to  avoid  awaking  the  Sphinx,  but  by 
what  opiates  to  keep  her  stretched  supme  with  her  lovely 
woman-face  betwixt  her  fierce  lion-paws.  This  also,  no  doubt, 
had  a  share  iu  his  becoming  the  associate  of  Geoffrey  Brother- 
ton,  from  whose  company,  if  he  had  been  at  peace  with  himself, 
he  would  have  recoiled  upon  the  slightestgacquaintance.  I  am 
at  some  lo«s  to  imagine  what  could  have  made  Geoffrey  take 
such  a  liking  to  Charley;  but  I  presume  it  was  the  confiding 
air  characterizing  all  Charley's  behaviour  that  chiefly  pleased 
him.  He  seemed  to  look  upon  him  wi*h  something  of  the 
tenderness  a  coarse  man  may  show  for  a  delicate  Italian  grey- 
hound, fitter  to  be  petted  by  a  lady. 

That  same  evening  Charley  came  to  my  rooms.  His  manner 
was  constrained,  and  yet  suggested  a  whole  tide  of  pent-up 
friendship  which,  but  for  some  undeclared  barrier,  would  have 
broken  out  and  overflowed  our  intercourse.  After  this  one 
evening,  however,  it  was  some  time  before  I  saw  him  again. 
When  I  called  upon  him  next  he  was  not  at  home,  nor  did  he 
come  to  see  me.  Again  I  sought  him,  but  with  like  failure. 
After  a  third  attempt  I  desisted,  not  a  little  hurt,  I  confess,  but 
not  in  the  least  inclined  to  quarrel  with  him.  I  gave  myself 
the  more  diligently  to  my  work. 

And  now  Oxford  began  to  do  me  harm.  I  saw  so  much 
idleness  and  so  much  wrong  of  all  kinds  about  me,  that  I  began 
to  consider  myself  a  fine  exception.  Because  I  did  *my  poor 
duty — no  better  than  any  honest  lad  must  do  it — I  became 
conceited ;  and  the  manner  in  which  Charley's  new  friend  treated 
me,  not  only  increased  the  fault,  but  aided  in  the  development 
of  certain  other  stems  from  the  same  root  of  self-partiality. 
He  never  saluted  me  with  other  than  what  I  regarded  as  a 
supercilious  nod  of  the  head.  When  I  met  him  in  company 
with  Charley,  and  the  latter  stopped  to  speak  to  me,  he  would 
walk  on  without  the  least  change  of  step.     The  indignation 


CHARLEY   AT    OXFORD.  195 

which  this  conduct  aroused,  drove  me  to  think  as  I  had  never 
thought  before  concerning  my  social  position.  I  found  it  im- 
possible to  define.  As  I  pondered,  however,  a  certainty  dawned 
upon  me  rather  than  was  arrived  at  by  me,  that  there  was 
some  secret  connected  with  my  descent,  upon  which  bore  the 
history  of  the  watch  I  carried  and  of  the  sword  I  had  lost. 
On  the  mere  possibility  of  something,  utterly  forgetful  that,  if 
the  secret  existed  at  all,  it  might  be  of  a  veiy  different  nature 
from  my  hopes,  I  began  to  build  castles  innumerable.  Per- 
ceiving of  course  that  one  of  a  decayed  yeoman  family  could 
stand  no  social  comparison  with  the  heir  to  a  rich  baronetcy, 
I  fell  back  upon  absurd  imaginings ;  and  what  with  the  self- 
satisfaction  of  doing  my  duty,  what  with  the  vanity  of  my 
baby  manhood,  and  what  with  the  mystery  I  chose  to  believe 
in  and  interpret  according  to  my  own  desires,  I  was  fast 
sliding  into  a  moral  condition  contemptible  indeed. 

But  still  my  heart  was  true  to  Charley.  When,  after  late 
hours  of  hard  reading,  I  retired  at  last  to  my  bed,  and  allowed 
my  thoughts  to  wander  where  they  would,  seldom  was  there  a 
night  on  which  they  did  not  turn  as  of  themselves  towards  the 
memory  of  our  past  happiness.  I  vowed,  although  Charley 
had  forsaken  me,  to  keep  his  chamber  in  my  heart  ever  emj^ty, 
and  closed  against  the  entrance  of  another.  If  ever  he 
pleased  to  return,  he  should  find  he  had  been  waited  for.  I 
believe  there  was  much  of  self-pity,  and  of  self-approval  as 
well,  mingling  with  my  regard  for  him ;  but  the  constancy  was 
there  notwithstanding,  and  I  regard  the  love  I  thus  cherished 
for  Charley  as  the  chief  saving  element  in  ray  condition  at  the 
time. 

One  night — I  cannot  now  recall  with  certainty  the  time  or 
season — I  only  know  it  was  night,  and  I  was  reading  alone  in 
my  room — a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  Charley  entered.  I 
sprang  from  my  seat  and  bounded  to  meet  him. 

"At  last,  Charley!"  I  exclaimed. 

But  he  almost  pushed  me  aside,  left  me  to  shut  the  door  he 
had  opened,  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  began  gnaw- 
ing the  head  of  his  cane.     I  resumed  my  seat,  moved  the  lamp 


196  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

SO  that  I  could  see  him,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  Then 
first  I  saw  that  his  face  was  unnaturally  pale  and  worn,  almost 
even  haggard.  Hi8  eyes  were  weary,  and  his  whole  manner  as 
of  one  haunted  by  an  evil  presence  of  which  he  is  ever  aware. 

"  You  are  an  enviable  fellow,  Wilfrid,"  he  said  at  length, 
with  something  between  a  groan  and  a  laugh. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  Charley  ?"  I  returned.  "  Why  am 
I  enviable  ?" 

"  Because  you  can  work.  I  hate  the  very  sight  of  a  book. 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  plucked.  I  see  nothing  else  for  it. 
And  what  will  the  old  man  say  ?  I  have  grace  enough  left  to 
be  sorry  for  him.  But  he  will  take  it  out  in  sour  looks  and 
silences." 

"There's  time  enough  yet.  I  wish  you  were  not  so  far 
ahead  of  me  :  we  might  have  worked  together." 

"  I  can't  work,  I  tell  you.  I  hate  it.  It  will  console  my 
father,  I  hope,  to  find  his  prophecies  concerning  me  come  true. 
I've  heard  him  abuse  me  to  my  mother." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  of  your  father,  Charley.  It's 
not  like  you.     I  can't  bear  to  hear  it." 

"  It's  not  like  what  I  used  to  be,  Wilfrid.  But  there's  none 
of  that  left.     What  do  you  take  me  for  ?     Honestly  now  ?" 

He  hung  his  head  low,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hearth-rug,  not 
on  the  fire,  and  kept  gnawing  at  the  head  of  his  cane. 

"  I  don't  like  some  of  your  companions,"  I  said.  "  To  be 
sure  I  don't  know  much  of  them !" 

"  The  less  you  know,  the  better !  If  there  be  a  devil,  that 
fellow  Brotherton  will  hand  me  over  to  him — bodily,  before 
long." 

"  Why  don't  you  give  him  up  ?"  I  said. 

"  It's  no  use  trying.  He's  got  such  a  hold  of  me.  Never 
let  a  man  you  don't  know  to  the  marrow  pay  even  a  toll-gate 
for  you,  Wilfrid." 

"  I  am  in  no  danger,  Charley.  Such  people  don't  take  to 
me,"  I  said,  self-righteously.     "But  it  can't  be  too  late  to 

break  w^ith  him.    I  know  my  uncle  would 1  could  manage 

a  five-pound  note  now,  I  think." 


CHARLEY   AT   OXFORD.  197 

"  My  dear  boy,  if  I  had  borrowed .     But  I  have  let 

him  pay  for  me  again  and  again,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  rid 
the  obligation.     But  it  don't  signify.     It's  too  late,  anyhow." 

"  What  have  you  done,  Charley  ?  Nothing  very  wrong,  I 
trust." 

The  lost  look  deepened. 

"It's  all  over,  Wilfrid,"  he  said.  "  But  it  don't  matter.  I 
can  take  to  the  river  when  I  please." 

"  But  then  you  know  you  might  happen  to  go  right  through 
the  river,  Charley." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  with  a  defiant  sound 
like  nothing  I  had  ever  heard. 

"  Charley  !"  I  cried,  "  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you.  You  can't 
have  changed  so  much  already  as  not  to  trust  me.  I  will  do 
all  I  can  to  help  you.     What  have  you  done  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing !"  he  rejoined,  and  tried  to  laugh  ;  it  was  a 
dreadful  failure.  "  But  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  that  mother 
of  mine  !  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  all ;  but  I  can't.  How  Bro- 
therton  would  laugh  at  me  now !  I  can't  be  made  quite  like 
other  people,  Charley  ?  You  would  never  have  been  such  a 
fool." 

"  You  are  more  delicately  made  than  most  people,  Charley, 
— *  touched  to  finer  issues,'  as  Shakspeare  says." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?" 

"  I  think  a  great  deal  about  you.  That  is  all  you  have  left 
me." 

"  I've  been  a  brute,  Wilfrid.  But  you'll  forgive  me,  I 
know." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  if  you'll  only  put  it  in  my  power  to 
serve  you.  Come,  trust  me,  Charley,  and  teU  me  all  about  it. 
I  shall  not  betray  you." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  that,"  he  answered,  and  sunk  into 
silence  once  more. 

I  look  to  myself  presumptuous  and  priggish  in  the  memory. 
But  I  did  mean  truly  by  him.  I  began  to  question  him,  and 
by  slow  degrees,  in  broken  hints,  and  in  jets  of  reply,  drew 
from  him  the  facts.     When  at  length  he  saw  that  I  under- 


198  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

stood,  lie  burst  into  tears,  hid   his   face   in   his   hands,  and 
rocked  himself  to  and  fro. 

"  Charley !  Charley !  don't  give  in  like  that,"  I  cried.  "Be  as 
sorry  as  you  like ;  but  don't  go  on  as  if  there  was  no  help.  Who 
has  not  failed  and  been  forgiven — in  one  way  if  not  in  another?" 

"  Who  is  there  to  forgive  me  ?  My  father  would  not.  And 
if  he  would,  what  difference  would  it  make?  I  have  done  it 
all  the  same." 

"  But  God,  Charley "  I  suggested,  hesitating. 

"  What  of  him  ?  If  he  should  choose  to  pass  a  thing  by 
and  say  nothing  about  it,  that  doesn't  undo  it.  It's  all 
nonsense.  God  himself  can't  make  it  that  I  didn't  do  what  I 
did  do." 

But  with  what  truthful  yet  reticent  words  can  I  convey 
the  facts  of  Charley's  case?  I  am  perfectly  aware  it  would  be 
to  expose  both  myself  and  him  to  the  laughter  of  men  of  low 
development  who  behave  as  if  no  more  selj-possesdon  were  de- 
manded of  a  man  than  of  one  of  the  lower  animals.  Such 
might  perhaps  feel  a  certain  involuntary  movement  of  pitiful- 
ness  at  the  fate  of  a  woman  first  awaking  to  the  consciousness 
that  she  can  no  more  hold  up  her  head  amongst  her  kind  : 
but  that  a  youth  should  experience  a  similar  sense  of  degra- 
dation and  loss,  they  would  regard  as  a  degree  of  silliness  and 
effeminacy  below  contempt  if  not  beyond  belief  But  there  is 
a  sense  of  personal  purity  belonging  to  the  man  as  well  as  to 
the  woman ;  and  although  I  dare  not  say  that  in  the  most  re- 
fined of  masculine  natures  it  asserts  itself  with  the  awful 
majesty  with  which  it  makes  its  presence  known  in  the  heart 
of  a  woman,  the  man  in  whom  it  speaks  with  authority  is  to 
be  found  amongst  the  worthiest ;  and  to  a  youth  like  Charley 
the  result  of  actual  offence  against  it  might  be  utter  ruin.  In 
his  case,  however,  it  was  not  merely  a  consciousness  of 
personal  defilement  which  followed ;  for,  whether  his  com- 
panions had  so  schemed  it  or  not,  he  supposed  himself  more 
than  ordinarily  guilty. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  marry  the  girl,"  said  poor  Charley,  with 
a  groan. 


CHARLEY   AT   OXFORD.  199 

Happily  I  saw  at  once  that  there  might  be  two  sides  to  the 
question,  and  that  it  was  desirable  to  know  more  ere  I  ven- 
tured a  definite  reply. 

I  had  grown  up,  thanks  to  many  things,  with  a  most  real 
although  vague  adoration  of  women ;  but  I  was  not  so  igno- 
rant as  to  be  unable  to  fancy  it  possible  that  Charley  had 
been  the  victim.  Therefore,  after  having  managed  to  comfort 
him  a  little,  and  taking  him  home  to  his  rooms,  I  set  about 
endeavoring  to  get  further  information. 

I  will  not  linger  over  the  affair — as  unpleasant  to  myself  as 
it  can  be  to  any  of  my  readers.  It  had  to  be  mentioned,  how- 
ever, not  merely  as  explaining  how  I  got  hold  of  Charley 
again,  but  as  affording  a  clew  to  his  character,  and  so  to  his 
history.  Not  even  yet  can  I  think  without  a  gush  of  anger 
and  shame  of  my  visit  to  Brotherton.  With  what  stammer- 
ing confusion  I  succeeded  at  last  in  making  him  understand 
the  nature  of  the  information  I  wanted,  I  will  not  attempt  to 
describe — nor  the  roar  of  laughter  which  at  length  burst  bel- 
lowing —not  from  himself  only,  but  from  three  or  four  com- 
panions as  well  to  whom  he  turned  and  communicated  the 
joke.  The  fire  of  jests,  and  proposals,  and  interpretations  of 
motive  which  I  had  then  to  endure,  seems  yet  to  scorch  my 
very  brain  at  the  mere  recollection.  From  their  manner  and 
speech  I  was  almost  convinced  that  they  had  laid  a  trap  for 
Charley,  whom  they  regarded  as  a  simpleton,  to  enjoy  his  con- 
sequent confusion.  With  what  I  managed  to  find  out  else- 
where, I  was  at  length  satisfied,  and  happily  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing Charley,  that  he  had  been  the  butt  of  his  companions, 
and  that  he  was  far  the  more  injured  person  in  any  possible 
aspect  of  the  affair. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  or  the  sigh  of  relief  which 
proved  that  at  last  his  mind  had  opened  to  the  facts  of  the 
case. 

"  Wilfrid,"  he  said,  "  you  have  saved  me.  We  shall  never 
be  parted  more.     See  if  I  am  ever  false  to  you  again !" 

And  yet  it  never  was  as  it  had  been.  I  am  sure  of  that 
now. 


200  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

Henceforth,  however,  he  entirely  avoided  his  former  com- 
panions. Our  old  friendship  was  renewed.  Our  old  talks 
arose  again.  And  now  that  he  was  not  alone  in  them,  the 
perplexities  under  which  he  had  broken  down  when  left  to  en- 
counter them  by  himself,  were  not  so  overwhelming  as  to 
render  liim  helpless.  We  read  a  good  deal  together,  and 
Charley  helped  me  much  in  the  finer  affairs  of  the  classics,  for 
his  perceptions  were  as  delicate  as  his  feelings.  He  would 
brood  over  a  Horatian  phrase  as  Keats  would  brood  over  a 
sweet  pea  or  a  violet ;  the  very  tone  in  which  he  would  repeat 
it  would  waft  me  from  it  an  aroma  unperceived  before.  When 
it  was  his  turn  to  come  to  my  rooms,  I  would  watch  for  his 
arrival  almost  as  a  lover  for  his  mistress. 

For  two  years  more  our  friendship  grew ;  in  which  time 
Charley  had  recovered  habits  of  diligence.  I  presume  he 
said  nothing  at  home  of  the  renewal  of  his  intimacy  with  me ; 
I  shrunk  from  questioning  him.  As  if  he  had  been  an  angel 
who  had  hurt  his  wing  and  was  compelled  to  sojourn  with  me 
for  a  time,  I  feared  to  bring  the  least  shadow  over  his  face, 
and  indeed  fell  into  a  restless  observance  of  his  moods.  I 
remember  we  read  "  Comus  "  together.  How  his  face  would 
glow  at  the  impassioned  praises  of  virtue !  and  how  the  glow 
would  die  into  a  gray  sadness  at  the  recollection  of  the  near 
past !     I  could  read  his  face  like  a  book. 

At  length  the  time  arrived  when  we  had  to  part — he  to 
study  for  the  bar,  I  to  remain  at  Oxford  another  year,  still 
looking  forward  to  a  literary  life. 

When  I  commenced  writing  my  story,  I  fancied  myself  so 
far  removed  from  it  that  I  could  regard  it  as  the  story  of 
another,  capable  of  being  viewed  on  all  sides,  and  conjectured 
and  speculated  upon.  And  so  I  found  it,  so  long  as  the 
regions  of  childhood  and  youth  detained  me.  But  as  I 
approach  the  middle  scenes,  I  begin  to  fear  the  revival  of  the 
old  torture;  that  from  the  dispassionate  reviewer  I  may 
become  once  again  the  suffering  actor.  Long  ago  I  read  a 
strange  story  of  a  man  condemned  at  periods  unforeseen  to 
act  ngain  and  yet  again  in  absolute  verisimilitude  each  of  the 


CHARLEY   AT   OXFORD.  201 

scenes  of  his  former  life;  I  have  a  feeling  as  if  I  too  might 
glide  from  the  present  into  the  past  without  a  sign  to  warn  me 
of  the  coming  transition. 

One  word  more  ere  I  pass  to  the  middle  events,  those  for 
the  sake  of  which  the  beginning  is  and  the  end  shall  be 
recorded.  It  is  this — that  I  am  under  endless  obligation  to 
Charley  for  opening  my  eyes  at  this  time  to  my  overweening 
estimate  of  myself.  Not  that  he  spoke — Charley  could  never 
have  reproved  even  a  child.  But  I  could  tell  almost  any 
sudden  feeling  that  passed  through  him.  His  face  betrayed 
it.  What  he  felt  about  me  I  saw  at  once.  From  the  signs 
of  his  mind,  I  often  recognized  the  character  of  what  was  in 
my  own ;  and  thus  seeing  myself  through  him,  I  gathered 
reason  to  be  ashamed ;  while  the  refinement  of  his  criticism, 
the  quickness  of  his  perception,  and  the  novelty  and  force  of 
his  remarks  convinced  me  that  I  could  not  for  a  moment  com- 
pare Avith  him  in  mental  gifts.  The  upper  hand  of  influence 
I  had  over  him  I  attribute  to  the  greater  freedom  of  my 
training,  and  the  enlarged  ideas  which  had  led  my  uncle  to 
avoid  enthralling  me  to  his  notions.  He  believed  the  truth 
could  afford  to  wait  until  I  was  capable  of  seeing  it  for 
myself;  and  that  the  best  embodiments  of  truth  are  but  \y 
bonds  and  fetters  to  him  who  cannot  accept  them  as  such. 
When  I  could  not  agree  with  him,  he  would  say,  with  one  of 
his  fine  smiles,  "  We'll  drop  it  then,  Willie.  I  don't  believe 
you  have  caught  my  meaning.  If  I  am  right,  you  will  see  it 
some  day,  and  there's  no  hurry."  How  could  it  be  but 
Charley  and  I  should  be  difierent,  seeing  we  had  fared  so 
difierently  ?  But  alas !  my  knowledge  of  his  character  is 
chiefly  the  result  of  after- thought. 

I  do  not  mean  this  manuscript  to  be  read  until  after  my 
death  ;  and  even  then, — although  partly  from  habit,  partly 
that  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  any  other  form  of  utterance, 
I  write  as  if  for  publication, — even  then,  I  say,  only  by  one. 
I  am  about  to  write  what  I  should  not  die  in  peace  if  I 
thought  she  would  never  know ;  but  which  I  dare  not  seek  to 
tell  her  now  for  the  risk  of  being  misunderstood.     I   thank 


202  WILFRID   CUMBEliMEDE. 

God  for  that  blessed  invention,  Death,  which  of  itself  must 
set  many  things  right ;  and  gives  a  man  a  chance  of  justifying 
himself  where  he  would  not  have  been  heard  while  alive. 
But  lest  my  manuscript  should  fall  into  other  hands,  I  have 
taken  care  that  not  a  single  name  in  it  should  contain  even  a 
side  look  or  hint  at  the  true  one.  She  will  be  able  to  under- 
stand the  real  person  by  almost  every  one  of  them. 


MY   WHITE  MAKE.  203 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

MY  WHITE  MARE. 

I  PASSED  my  final  examinations  with  credit,  if  not  with 
honor.  It  was  not  yet  clearly  determined  what  I  should  do 
next.  My  goal  was  London,  but  I  was  unwilling  to  go 
thither  empty-handed.  I  had  been  thinking  as  well  as  read- 
ing a  good  deal;  a  late  experience  had  stimulated  my 
imagination  ;  and  at  spare  moments  I  had  been  writing  a  tale. 
It  had  grown  to  a  considerable  mass  of  manuscript,  and  I  was 
anxious,  before  going,  to  finish  it.  Hence,  therefore,  I 
returned  home  with  the  intention  of  remaining  there  quietly 
for  a  few  months  before  setting  out  to  seek  my  fortune. 

Whether  my  uncle  in  his  heart  quite  favored  the  plan,  I 
have  my  doubts,  but  it  would  have  been  quite  inconsistent 
with  his  usual  grand  treatment  of  me  to  oppose  anything  not 
wrong  on  which  I  had  set  my  heart.  .Finding  now  that  I 
took  less  exercise  than  he  thought  desirable,  and  kept  myself 
too  much  to  my  room,  he  gave  me  a  fresh  proof  of  his  un- 
varying kindness.  He  bought  me  a  small  gray  mare  of 
strength  and  speed.  Her  lineage  was  unknown ;  but  her 
small  head,  broad  fine  chest,  and  clean  limbs,  indicated  Arab 
blood  at  no  great  remove.  Upon  her  I  used  to  gallop  over 
the  fields,  or  saunter  along  the  lanes,  dreaming  and  inventing. 

And  now  certain  feelings,  too  deeply  rooted  in  my  nature 
for  my  memory  to  recognize  their  beginnings,  began  to  assume 
color  and  condensed  form,  as  if  about  to  burst  into  some  kind 
of  blossom.  Thanks  to  my  education  and  love  of  study,  also 
to  a  self-respect  undefined,  yet  restraining,  nothing  had 
occurred  to  wrong  them.  In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  worshipped 
the  idea  of  womanhood.  I  thank  Heaven,  if  ever  I  do 
thank  for  anything,  that  I  still  worship  thus.  Alas !  how 
many  have  put  on  the  acolyte's  robe  in  the  same  temple,  who 


204  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

have  ere  long  cast  dirt  upon  the  statue  of  their  diviuity,  then 
dragged  her  as  defiled  from  her  lufty  pedestal,  and  left  her 
lying  dishonored  at  its  foot !  Instead  of  feeding  with  holy  oil 
the  lamp  of  the  higher  instinct,  which  would  glorify  and 
purify  the  lower,  they  feed  the  fire  of  the  lower  with  vile  fuel, 
which  sends  up  its  stinging  smoke  to  becloud  and  blot  the 
higher. 

One  lovely  spring  morning,  the  buds  half  out,  and  the  w4nd 
blowing  fresh  and  strong,  the  white  clouds  scudding  across  a 
blue  gulf  of  sky,  and  tlie  tall  trees  far  away  swinging  as  of 
old,  when  they  churned  the  wind  for  my  childish  fancy,  I 
looked  up  from  my  book  and  saw  it  all.  The  gladness  of 
nature  entered  into  me,  and  my  heart  swelled  so  in  my  bosom 
that  I  turned  with  distaste  from  all  further  labor.  I  pushed 
my  papers  from  me,  and  went  to  the  window.  The  short 
grass  all  about  was  leaning  away  from  the  wind,  shivering 
and  showing  its  enamel.  Still,  as  in  childhood,  the  wind  had 
a  special  power  over  me.  In  another  moment  I  was  out  of 
the  house  and  hastening  to  the  farm  for  my  mare.  She 
neighed  at  the  sound  of  my  step.  I  saddled  and  bridled  her, 
sprang  on  her  back,  and  galloped  across  the  grass  in  the 
direction  of  the  trees. 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  within  the  lodge  gates,  walking  my 
mare  along  the  graveled  drive,  and  with  the  reins  on  the 
white  curved  neck  before  me,  looking  up  at  those  lofty  pines 
whose  lonely  heads  were  swinging  in  the  air  like  floating  but 
fettered  islands.  My  head  had  begun  to  feel  dizzy  with  the 
ever-iterated,  slow,  half-circular  sweep,  when  just  opposite  the 
lawn,  stretching  from  a  low  wire  fence  up  to  the  door  of  the 
steward's  house,  my  mare  shied,  darted  to  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  and  flew  across  the  grass.  Caught  thus  lounging  on 
my  saddle,  I  was  almost  unseated.  As  soon  as  I  had  pulled 
her  up,  I  turned  to  see  what  had  startled  her,  for  the  im- 
pression of  a  white  flash  remained  upon  my  mental  sensorium. 
There,  leaning  on  the  little  gate,  looking  much  diverted,  stood 
the  loveliest  creature,  in  a  morning  dress  of  white,  which  the 
wind  was  blowing  about  her  like  a  cloud.    She  had  no  hat  on. 


MY  WHITE   MARE.  205 

and  her  hair,  as  if  eager  to  join  in  the  merriment  of  the  day, 
was  flying  like  the  ribbons  of  a  tattered  sail.  A  humanized 
Dryad!— one  that  had  been  caught  young,  but  in  whom  the 
forest-sap  still  asserted  itself  in  wild  affinities  with  the  wind 
and  the  swaying  branches,  aud  the  white  clouds  careeriug 
across  !  Could  it  be  Clara  ?  How  could  it  be  any  other  than 
Clara  ?    I  rode  back. 

I  was  a  little  short-sighted,  and  had  to  get  pretty  near 
before  I  could  be  certain ;  but  she  knew  me,  and  waited  my 
approach.  When  I  came  near  enough  to  see  them,  I  could 
not  mistake  those  violet  eyes. 

I  was  now  in  my  twentieth  year,  and  had  never  been  in  love. 
Whether  I  now  fell  in  love  or  not,  I  leave  to  my  reader. 

Clara  was  even  more  beautiful  than  her  girlish  loveliness 
had  promised.  "  An  exceeding  fair  forehead,"  to  quote  Sir 
Philip  Sidney ;  eyes  of  which  I  have  said  enough ;  a  nose 
more  delicate  than  symmetrical ;  a  mouth  rather  thin-lipped, 
but  well  curved ;  a  chin  rather  small,  I  confess ; — but  did 
any  one  ever  from  the  most  elaborated  description  acquire  even  i  / 
an  approximate  idea  of  the  face  intended?  Her  person  was 
lithe  and  graceful ;  she  had  good  hands  and  feet ;  and  the  fair- 
ness of  her  skin  gave  her  brown  hair  a  duskier  look  than 
belonged  to  itself. 

Before  I  was  yet  near  enough  to  be  certain  of  her,  I  lifted 
my  hat,  and  she  returned  the  salutation  with  an  almost  fami- 
liar nod  and  smile. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  speaking  first — in  her  old 
half-mocking  way,  "  that  I  so  nearly  cost  you  your  seat." 

"  It  was  my  own  carelessness,"  I  returned.  "  Surely  I  am 
right  in  taking  you  for  the  lady  who  allowed  me,  in  old  times, 
to  call  her  Clara.  How  I  could  ever  have  had  the  presump- 
tion I  cannot  imagine." 

"  Of  course  that  is  a  familiarity  not  to  be  thought  of  be- 
tween full-grown  people  like  us,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  she 
rejoined,  and  her  smile  became  a  laugh. 

"  Ah,  you  do  recognize  me  then?"  I  said,  thinking  her  cool, 
but  forgetting  the  thought  the  next  moment. 


206  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  guess  at  you.  If  you  had  been  dressed  as  on  one  occa- 
sion, I  should  not  have  got  so  far  as  that." 

Pleased  at  this  merry  reference  to  our  meeting  on  the  Wen- 
gern  Alp,  I  was  yet  embarrassed  to  find  that  nothing  more 
suggested  itself  to  be  said.  But  while  I  was  quieting  my 
mare,  which  happily  atibrded  me  some  pretext  at  the  moment, 
another  voice  fell  on  my  ear — hoarse,  but  breezy  and  pleasant. 

"  So,  Clara,  you  are  no  sooner  back  to  old  quarters  than  you 
give  a  rendezvous  at  the  garden  gate — eh,  girl  ?" 

"  Rather  an  ill-chosen  spot  for  the  purpose,  papa,"  she  re- 
turned, laughing,  "  especially  as  the  gentleman  has  too  much 
to  do  with  his  horse  to  get  off  and  talk  to  me." 

"  Ah  !  our  old  friend,  ^Ir.  Cumbermede,  I  declare  ! — Only 
rather  more  of  him !"  he  added,  laughing,  as  he  opened  the 
little  gate  in  the  wire  fence,  and  coming  up  to  me  shook  hands 
heartily.  "  Delighted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  Have 
you  left  Oxford  for  good  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered — "some  time  ago." 

"  And  may  I  ask  what  you're  turning  your  attention  to 
now?" 

"  Well,  I  hardly  like  to  confess  it,  but  I  mean  to  have  a  try 
at — something  in  the  literary  way." 

"  Plucky  enough  !  The  paths  of  literature  are  not  certainly 
the  paths  of  pleasantness  or  of  peace  even — so  far  as  ever  I 
heard.     Somebody  said  you  were  going  in  for  the  law." 

"  I  thought  there  were  too  many  lawyers  already.  One  so 
often  hears  of  barristers  with  nothing  to  do,  and  glad  to  take 
to  the  pen,  that  I  thought  it  might  be  better  to  begin  with 
what  I  should  most  probably  come  to  at  last." 

"  Ah !  but  Mr.  Cumbermede,  there  are  departments  of  the 
law  which  bring  quicker  returns  than  the  bar.  If  you  would 
put  yourself  in  my  hands  now,  you  should  be  earning  your 
bread  at  least  within  a  couple  of  years  or  so." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  I  returned  heartily,  for  he  spoke  as 
if  he  meant  what  he  said  ;  "  but  you  see  I  have  a  leaning  to 
the  one  and  not  to  the  other.  I  should  like  to  have  a  try  first, 
at  all  events." 


MY   WHITE   MARE.  207 

"  "Well,  perhaps  it's  better  to  begin  by  following  your  bent. 
You  may  find  the  road  take  a  turn,  though." 

"  Perhaps,  I  will  go  till  it  does,  though." 

While  we  talked  Clara  had  followed  her  father,  and  was 
now  patting  my  mare's  neck  with  a  nice,  plump,  fair-fingered 
hand.  The  creature  stood  with  her  arched  neck  and  small 
head  turned  lovingly  towards  her. 

"  What  a  nice  white  thing  you  have  got  to  ride !"  she  said. 
"  I  hope  it  is  your  own." 

"Why  do  you  hope  that?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  it's  best  to  ride  your  own  horse,  isn't  it  ?"  she 
answered,  looking  up  naively. 

"  Would  you  like  to  ride  her  ?  I  believe  she  has  carried  a 
lady,  though  not  since  she  came  into  my  possession." 

Instead  of  answering  me  she  looked  round  at  her  father, 
who  stood  by  smiling  benignantly.     Her  look  said — 

"  If  papa  would  let  me." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  seemed  waiting.     I  resumed. 

"  Are  you  a  good  horsewoman.  Miss Clara?"  I  said, 

with  a  feel  after  the  recovery  of  old  privileges. 

"  I  must  not  sing  my  own  praises,  Mr. Wilfrid,"  she  re- 
joined, "  but  I  have  ridden  in  Rotten  Row,  and  I  believe  with- 
out any  signal  disgrace." 

"  Have  you  got  a  side-saddle  ?"  I  asked,  dismounting. 

Mr.  Coningham  spoke  now. 

"  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Cumbermede's  horse  a  little  too 
frisky  for  you,  Clara  ?    I  know  so  little  about  you,  I  can't  tell 

what  you're  fit  for. She  used  to  ride  pretty  well  as  a  girl," 

he  added  turning  to  me. 

"  I've  not  forgotten  that,"  I  said.  "  I  shall  walk  by  her 
side,  you  know." 

"  Shall  you  ?"  she  said,  with  a  sly  look. 

"  Perhaps,"  I  suggested,  "  your  grandfather  would  let  me 
have  his  horse,  and  then  we  might  have  a  gallop  across  the 
park." 

"  The  best  way,"  said  Mr.  Coningham,  "  will  be  to  let  the 
gardener  take  your  horse,  while  you  come  in  and  have  some 


208  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

luucheon.  We'll  see  about  the  mount  after  that.  My  horse 
has  to  carry  me  back  in  the  evening,  else  I  should  be  haj3py 
to  join  you.     She's  a  fine  creature,  that  of  yours." 

"  She's  the  handiest  creature !"  I  said — "  a  little  skittish, 
but  very  affectiouate,  and  has  a  fine  mouth.  Perhaps  she 
ought  to  have  a  curb-bit  for  you,  though,  Miss  Clara." 

"  We'll  manage  with  the  snaffle,"  she  answered  with,  I 
thought,  another  sly  glance  at  me,  out  of  eyes  sparkling  with 
supi)ressed  merriment  and  expectation !  Her  father  had  gone 
to  find  the  gardener,  and  as  we  stood  waiting  for  him,  she  still 
stroked  the  mare's  neck. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  of  taking  cold,"  I  said,  "  without  your 
bonnet  ?" 

"  I  never  had  a  cold  in  my  life,"  she  returned. 

"  That  is  saying  much.  You  would  have  me  believe  you 
are  not  made  of  the  same  clay  as  other  people." 

"  Believe  anything  you  like,"  she  answered  carelessly. 

**Then  I  do  believe  it,"  I  rejoined. 

She  looked  me  in  the  face,  took  her  hand  from  the  mare's 
neck,  stepped  back  half-a-foot,  and  looked  round,  saying : 

"  I  wonder  where  that  man  can  have  got  to.  Oh,  here  he 
comes,  and  papa  with  him  !" 

We  went  across  the  trim  little  lawn,  which  lay  waiting  for 
the  warmer  weather  to  burst  into  a  profusion  of  roses,  and 
through  a  trellised  porch  entered  a  shadowy  little  hall,  with 
heads  of  stags  and  foxes,  an  old-fashioned  glass-doored  book- 
case, and  hunting  and  riding-whips,  whence  we  passed  into  a 
low-pitched  drawing-room,  redolent  of  dried  rose-leaves  and 
fresh  hyacinths.  A  little  pug-dog,  which  seemed  to  have  failed 
in  swallowing  some  big  dog's  tongue,  jumped  up  barking  from 
the  sheepskin  mat,  where  he  lay  before  the  fire. 

"  Stupid  pug !"  said  Clara.  "  You  never  know  friends 
from  foes !     I  wonder  where  my  aunt  is." 

She  left  the  room.  Her  father  had  not  followed  us.  I  sat 
down  on  the  sofa,  and  began  turning  over  a  pretty  book  bound 
in  red  silk,  one  of  the  first  of  the  amiual  tribe,  which  lay  on 
the  table.    I  was  deep  in  one  of  its  eastern  stories  when,  hear- 


MY    WHITE   MARE.  209 

ing  a  slight  movement,  I  looked  up,  and  there  sat  Clara  in  a 
low  chair  by  the  window,  working  at  a  delicate  bit  of  lace 
with  a  needle.  She  looked  somehow  as  if  she  had  been  there  an 
hour  at  least.     I  laid  down  the  book  with  some  exclamation. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Cumbermede?"  she  asked,  with  the 
slightest  possible  glance  up  from  the  fine  meshes  of  her  work. 

"  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  you  were  in  the  room." 

"  Of  course  not.  How  could  a  literary  man  with  a  Forget- 
me-not  in  his  hand  be  expected  to  know  that  a  girl  had  come 
into  the  room  ?" 

"  Have  you  been  at  school  all  this  time  ?"  I  asked,  for  the 
sake  of  avoiding  a  silence. 

"  All  what  time  ?" 

"  Say,  since  we  parted  in  Switzerland." 

"  Not  quite.  I  have  been  staying  with  an  aunt  for  nearly 
a  year.     Have  you  been  at  college  all  this  time  ?" 

"  At  school  and  college.     When  did  you  come  home  ?" 

"  This  is  not  my  home,  but  I  came  here  yesterday." 

"  Don't  you  find  the  country  dull  after  London  ?" 

"  I  haven't  had  time  yet." 

"  Did  they  give  you  riding  lessons  at  school  ?" 

"  No.  But  my  aunt  took  care  of  my  morals  in  that  respect. 
A  girl  might  as  well  not  be  able  to  dance  as  ride  nowadays." 

"Who  rode  with  you  in  the  park?    Not  the  riding-master?" 

With  a  slight  flush  on  her  face  she  retorted, 

"  How  many  more  questions  are  you  going  to  ask  me.  I 
should  like  to  know,  that  I  may  make  up  my  mind  how 
many  of  them  to  answer." 

"  Suppose  we  say  six." 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied.  "  Now  I  shall  answer  your  last 
question  and  count  that  the  first.  About  nine  o'clock, 
one day " 

"  Morning  or  evening  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Morning,  of  course — I  walked  out  of the  house " 

"  Your  aunt's  house  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course,  my  aunt's  house.     Do  let  me  go  on  with 

my  story.     It  was  getting  a  little  dark, " 

14 


■2h)  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Getting  dark  at  nine  in  the  morning  ?" 

"  In  the  evening,  I  said." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  thought  you  said  the  morning." 

"  No,  no,  the  evening  ; — and  of  course  I  was  a  little 
frightened,  for  1  was  not  accustomed " 

"  But  you  Wiis  never  out  alone  at  that  hour, — in  London  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  quite  alone.  I  had  promised  to  meet-^a  friend 
at  the  corner  of You  know  that  part,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     What  part  ?" 

"  Oh May  fair.     You  know  Mayfair,  don't  you  ?" 

"  You  were  going  to  meet  a  gentleman  at  the  corner  of 
Mayfair — were  you  ?"  I  said,  getting  quite  bewildered. 

She  jumped  up,  clapping  her  hands  as  gracefully  as 
merrily,  and  crying — 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  meet  any  gentleman.  There !  Your 
six  questions  are  answered.  I  won't  answer  a  single  other 
you  choose  to  ask,  except  I  please,  which  is  not  in  the  least 
likely." 

She  made  me  a  low  half-merry  half-mocking  courtesy,  and 
left  the  room. 

The  same  moment  her  father  came  in,  following  old  Mr. 
Coningham,  who  gave  me  a  kindly  welcome,  and  said  his 
horse  was  at  my  service,  but  he  hoped  I  would  lunch  with  him 
first.  I  gratefully  consented,  and  soon  luncheon  was  an- 
nounced. Miss  Coningham,  Clara's  aunt,  was  in  the  dining- 
room  before  us.  A  dry,  antiquated  woman,  she  greeted  me 
with  unexpected  frankness.  Lunch  was  half  over  before 
Clara  entered — in  a  perfectly  fitting  habit,  her  hat  on,  and 
her  skirt  thrown  over  her  arm. 

"Soho,  Clara!"  cried  her  father;  "you  want  to  take  us  by 
suri:)rise — coming  out  all  at  once  a  town-bred  lady,  eh  ?" 

"  Why,  where  ever  did  you  get  that  riding-habit,  Clara  ?" 
said  her  aunt. 

"  In  my  box,  aunt,"  said  Clara. 

"  My  word,  child,  but  your  father  has  kept  you  in  pocket- 
money  !"  returned  Miss  Coningham. 

"I've  got  a  town-aunt  as  well  as  a  country  one,"  rejoined 


MY   WHITE   MARE.  211 

Clara,  with  an  expression  I  could  not  quite  understauci,  but 
out  of  which  her  laugh  took  only  half  the  sting. 

Miss  Coninghani  reddened  a  little.  I  judged  afterwards 
that  Clara  had  been  diplomatically  allowing  her  just  to  feei 
what  sharp  claws  she  had  for  use  if  required. 

But  the  effect  of  the  change  from  loose  white  musljn  to 
tight  dark  cloth  was  marvellous,  and  I  was  bewitched  by  it. 
So  slight  yet  so  round,  so  trim  yet  so  pliant — she  was  grace 
itself.  It  seemed  as  if  the  former  object  of  my  admiration 
had  vanished,  and  I  had  found  another  with  such  surpassing 
charms  that  the  loss  could  not  be  regretted.  I  may  just  men- 
tion that  the  change  appeared  also  to  bring  out  a  certain  look 
of  determination  which  I  now  recalled  as  having  belonged  to 
her  when  a  child. 

"  Clara !"  said  her  father  in  a  very  marked  tone ;  where- 
upon it  was  Clara's  turn  to  blush  and  be  silent. 

I  started  some  new  subject,  in  the  airiest  manner  I  could 
command.  Clara  recovered  her  composure,  and  I  flattered 
myself  she  looked  a  little  grateful  when  our  eyes  met.  But  I 
caught  her  father's  eyes  twinkling  now  and  then  as  if  from 
some  secret  source  of  merriment,  and  could  not  help  fancying 
he  was  more  amused  than  displeased  with  his  daughter. 


212  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


A   RIDING   LESSON. 


By  the  time  luncheon  was  over,  the  horses  had  been  stand- 
ing some  minutes  at  the  lawn  gate,  my  mare  with  a  side-saddle. 
AVe  hastened  to  mount,  Clara's  eyes  full  of  expectant  frolic. 
I  managed,  as  I  thought,  to  get  before  her  father,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  lifting  her  to  the  saddle.  She  was  up  ere  I  could 
feel  her  weight  on  my  arm.  When  I  gathered  her  again  with 
my  eyes,  she  was  seated  as  calmly  as  if  at  her  lace  needle- 
work, only  her  eyes  were  sparkling.  With  the  slightest  help, 
she  had  her  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  with  a  single  movement 
had  her  skirt  comfortable.  I  left  her  to  mount  the  horse  they 
had  brought  me,  and  when  I  looked  from  his  back,  the  white 
mare  was  already  flashing  across  the  boles  of  the  trees,  and 
Clara's  dark  skirt  flying  out  behind  like  the  drapery  of  a  de- 
scending goddess  in  an  allegorical  picture.  With  a  pang  of 
terror  I  fancied  the  mare  had  run  away  with  her,  and  sat  for 
a  moment  afraid  to  follow,  lest  the  sound  of  my  horse's  feet 
on  the  turf  should  make  her  gallop  the  faster.  But  the  next 
moment  she  turned  in  her  saddle,  and  I  saw  a  face  alive  with 
pleasure  and  confidence.  As  she  recovered  her  seat,  she 
-vyaved  her  hand  to  me,  and  I  put  my  horse  to  his  speed.  I 
had  not  gone  far,  however,  before  I  perceived  a  fresh  cause  of 
anxiety.  She  was  making  straight  for  a  wire  fence.  I  had 
heard  that  horses  could  not  see  such  a  fence,  and,  if  Clara  did 
not  see  it,  or  should  be  careless,  the  result  would  be  frightful. 
I  biiouted  after  her,  but  she  took  no  heed.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, there  was  right  in  front  of  them  a  gate,  which  I  had  not 
at  first  observed,  into  the  bars  of  which  had  been  wattled 
some  brushwood.     "  The  mare  will  see  that,"  I  said  to  myself. 


A    RIDING    LESSON.  213 

But  the  words  were  hardly  through  my  mind  before  I  saw 
them  fly  over  it  like  a  bird. 

On  the  other  side  she  pulled  up  and  waited  for  me. 

Now  I  had  never  jumped  a  fence  in  my  life.  I  did  not 
know  that  my  mare  could  do  such  a  thing,  for  I  had  never 
given  her  the  chance.  I  was  not,  and  never  have  become, 
what  would  be  considered  an  accomplished  horseman.  I 
scarcely  know  a  word  of  stable-slang.  I  have  never  followed 
the  hounds  more  than  twice  or  three  times  in  the  course  of  my 
life.  Not  the  less  am  I  a  true  lover  of  horses — but  I  have 
been  their  companion  more  in  work  than  in  play.  I  have 
slept  for  miles  on  horseback,  but  even  now  I  have  not  a  sure 
seat  over  a  fence. 

I  knew  nothing  of  the  animal  I  rode,  but  I  was  bound  at 
least  to  make  the  attempt  to  follow  my  leader.  I  was  too 
inexperienced  not  to  put  him  to  his  speed  instead  of  going 
gently  up  to  the  gate ;  and  I  had  a  bad  habit  of  leaning  for- 
ward in  my  saddle,  besides  knowing  nothing  of  how  to  incline 
myself  backwards  as  the  horse  alighted.  Hence,  when  I 
found  myself  on  the  other  side,  it  was  not  on  my  horse's  back, 
but  on  my  own  face.  I  rose  uninjured,  except  in  my  self- 
esteem.  I  fear  I  was  for  the  moment  as  much  disconcerted  as 
if  I  had  been  guilty  of  some  moral  fault.  Nor  did  it  help 
me  much  towards  regaining  my  composure  that  Clara  was 
shaking  with  suppressed  laughter.  Utterly  stupid  from  morti- 
fication, I  laid  hold  of  my  horse,  which  stood  waiting  for  me 
beside  the  mare,  and  scrambled  upon  his  back.  But  Clara, 
who,  with  all  her  fun,  was  far  from  being  ill-natured,  fancied 
from  my  silence  that  I  was  hurt.  Her  merriment  vanished. 
With  quite  an  anxious  expression  on  her  face,  she  drew  to  my 
side,  saying, 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt  ?" 

"  Only  my  pride  ?"  I  answered. 

"  Never  mind  that,"  she  returned  gaily.  "  That  will  soon 
be  itself  again." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  I  rejoined.  "  To  make  such  a  fool 
of  myself  before  you  !" 


214  WILFRID    CUMBERMEDH. 

"  Am  I  such  a  formidable  person  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.  "  But  I  never  jumped  a  fence  in  my 
life  before." 

"  If  you  had  been  afraid,"  she  said,  "  and  had  pulled  up,  I 
might  have  despise i  you.  As  it  was,  I  only  laughed  at  you. 
"Where  was  the  harm  ?  You  shirked  nothing.  You  followed 
your  leader.  Come  along,  I  will  give  you  a  lesson  or  two 
before  we  get  back." 

'*  Thank  you,"  I  said,  beginning  to  recover  my  spirits  a  little; 
"I  shall  be  a  most  obedient  pupil.  But  how  did  you  get  so 
clever,  Clara?" 

I  ventured  the  unprotected  name,  and  she  took  no  notice  of 
the  liberty. 

''I  told  you  I  had  had  a  riding-master.  If  you  are  not 
afraid,  and  mind  what  you  are  told,  you  will  always  come  right 
somehow." 

"  I  suspect  that  is  good  advice  for  more  than  horsemanship." 

"I  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  moralizing.  I  am  in- 
capable of  it,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  serious  self-defence. 

"  I  had  as  little  intention  of  making  the  accusation,"  I  re- 
joined.    "  But  will  you  really  teach  me  a  little  ?" 

"Most  willingly.  To  begin.  You  must  sit  erect.  You  lean 
forward." 

"  Thank  you.     Is  this  better?" 

"  Yes,  better.  A  little  more  yet.  You  ought  to  have  your 
stirrups  shorter.  It  is  a  poor  affectation  to  ride  like  a  trooper. 
Their  own  officers  don't.  You  can  tell  any  novice  by  his  long 
leathers,  his  heels  down  and  his  toes  in  the  stirrups.  Ride 
home,  if  you  want  to  ride  comfortably." 

This  phrase  was  new  to  me,  but  I  guessed  what  she  meant, 
and  without  dismounting,  pulled  my  stirrup-leathers  a  couple 
of  holes  shorter,  and  thrust  my  feet  through  to  the  instep.  She 
watched  the  whole  proceeding. 

"  There !  you  look  more  like  riding  now,"  she  said.  "  Let  us 
have  another  canter.  I  will  promise  not  to  lead  you  over  any 
more  fences  without  due  warning." 

"And  due  admonition  as  well,  I  trust,  Clara." 


A   RIDING   LESSON.  215 

She  nodded,  and  away  we  went.  I  had  never  been  so  proud 
of  my  mare.  She  showed  to  much  advantage,  with  the  grace- 
fill  figure  on  her  back,  which  she  carried  like  a  feather. 

"  Now  there's  a  little  fence,"  she  said,  pointing  where  a  rail 
or  two  protected  a  clump  of  plantation.  "  You  must  mind  the 
young  wood  though,  or  we  shall  get  into  trouble.  Mind  you 
throw  yourself  back  a  little — as  you  see  me  do." 

I  watched  her,  and  following  her  directions,  did  better  this 
time,  for  I  got  over  somehow  and  recovered  my  seat. 

"  There !  You  improve,"  said  Clara.  "  Now  we're  pounded, 
except  you  can  jump  again,  and  it  is  not  quite  so  easy  from 
this  side." 

When  we  alighted,  I  found  my  saddle  in  the  proper  place. 

"  Bravo !"  she  cried,  "  I  entirely  forgive  your  first  misad- 
venture.    You  do  splendidly." 

"  I  would  rather  you  forgot  it,  Clara,"  I  cried  ungallantly. 

"  Well,  I  will  be  generous,"  she  returned.  "  Besides,  I  owe 
you  something  for  such  a  charming  ride.     I  will  forget  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said,  and  drawing  closer  would  have  laid 
my  left  hand  on  her  right. 

Whether  she  foresaw  my  intention,  I  do  not  know ;  but  in  a 
moment  she  was  yards  away,  scampering  over  the  grass.  My 
horse  could  never  have  overtaken  hjers. 

By  the  time  she  drew  rein  and  allowed  me  to  get  alongside 
of  her  once  more,  we  were  in  sight  of  Moldwarp  Hall.  It  stood 
with  one  corner  towards  us,  giving  the  prospective  of  two  sides 
at  once.     She  stopped  her  mare,  and  said, 

"There,  Wilfrid!  What  would  you  give  to  call  a  place  like 
that  your  own  ?  What  a  thing  to  have  a  house  like  that  to 
live  in !" 

"  I  know  something  I  should  like  better,"  I  returned. 

I  assure  my  reader  I  was  not  so  silly  as  to  be  on  the  point 
of  making  her  an  ofler  already.  Neither  did  she  so  misunder- 
stand me.  She  was  very  near  the  mark  of  my  meaning  when 
she  rejoined, 

"Do  you?  I  don't.  I  suppose  you  would  prefer  being  called 
a  fine  poet,  or  something  of  the  sort." 


216  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

I  was  glad  she  did  not  give  me  time  to  reply,  for  I  had  not 
intended  to  expose  myself  to  her  ridicule.  She  was  off  again 
at  a  gallop  towards  the  Hall,  straight  for  the  less  accessible  of 
the  tsvo  gates,  and  had  scrambled  the  mare  up  to  the  very  bell- 
pull  and  rung  it  before  I  could  get  near  her.  When  the  porter 
appeared  in  the  wicket — 

"  Open  the  gate,  Jansen,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  see  Mrs. 
Wilson,  and  I  don't  want  to  get  down." 

"  But  horses  never  come  in  here,  Miss,"  said  the  man. 

"  I  mean  to  make  an  exception  in  favor  of  this  mare,"  she 
answered. 

The  man  hesitated  a  moment,  then  retreated — but  only  to 
obey,  as  we  understood  at  once  by  the  creaking  of  the  dry 
hinges,  which  were  seldom  required  to  move. 

"  You  won't  mind  holding  her  for  me,  will  you  ?"  she  said, 
turning  to  me. 

I  had  been  sitting  mute  with  surprise  both  at  the  way  in 
which  she  ordered  the  man,  and  at  his  obedience.  But  now  I 
found  my  tongue. 

"  Don't  you  think.  Miss  Coningham,"  I  said — for  the  man 
was  within  hearing,  "  we  had  better  leave  them  both  with  the 
porter,  and  then  we  could  go  in  together  ?  I'm  not  sure  that 
those  flags,  not  to  mention  the  steps,  are  good  footing  for  that 
mare." 

"Oh!  you're  afraid  of  your  animal,  are  you?"  she  rejoined. 
"  Very  well.     Shall  I  hold  your  stirrup  for  you  ?" 

Before  I  could  dismount  she  had  slipped  off,  and  begun 
gathering  up  her  skirt.  The  man  came  and  took  the  horses. 
We  entered  by  the  open  gate  together. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  cruel,  Clara  ?"  I  said.  "  You  will 
always  misinterpret  me !  I  was  quite  right  about  the  flags. 
Don't  you  see  how  hard  they  are,  and  how  slippery  therefore 
for  iron  shoes  ?" 

"  You  might  have  seen  by  this  time  that  I  know  quite  as 
much  about  horses  as  you  do,"  she  returned,  a  little  cross,  I 
thought. 

"  You  can  ride  ever  so  much  better,'^  I  answered ;  "  but  it 


A   RIDING   LESSON.  217 

does  not  follow  you  know  more  about  horses  than  I  do.  I  once 
saw  a  horse  have  a  frightful  fall  on  just  such  a  pavement.  Be- 
sides, does  one  think  only  of  the  horse  when  there's  an  angel 
on  his  back  ?" 

It  was  a  silly  speech,  and  deserved  rebuke. 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  fond  of  such  compliments,"  she 
answered. 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  door  of  Mrs.  Wilson's 
apartment.  She  received  us  rather  stiffly,  even  for  her.  After 
some  common-place  talk,  in  which,  without  departing  from 
facts,  Clara  made  it  appear  that  she  had  set  out  for  the  express 
purpose  of  paying  Mrs.  Wilson  a  visit,  I  asked  if  the  family 
was  at  home,  and  finding  they  were  not,  begged  leave  to  walk 
into  the  librs»,ry. 

"  We'll  go  together,"  she  said,  apparently  not  caring  about  a 
tete-d-tete  with  Clara.  Evidently  the  old  lady  liked  her  as  little 
as  ever. 

We  left  the  house,  and  entering  again  by  a  side  door,  passed 
on  our  way  through  the  little  gallery,  into  which  I  had  dropped 
from  the  roof. 

"  Look,  Clara,  that  is  where  I  came  down,"  I  said. 

She  merely  nodded.  But  Mrs.  Wilson  looked  very  sharply, 
first  at  the  one,  then  at  the  other  of  us.  When  we  reached  the 
library,  I  found  it  in  the  same  miserable  condition  as  before, 
and  could  not  help  exclaiming,  with  some  indignation: 

"It  rs  a  shame  to  see  such  treasures  mouldering  there!  I 
am  confident  there  are  many  valuable  books  among  them, 
getting  ruined  from  pure  neglect.  I  wish  I  knew  Sir  Giles.  I 
would  ask  him  to  let  me  come  and  set  them  right." 

"  You  would  be  choked  with  dust  and  cobwebs  in  an  hour's 
time,"  said  Clara.  "  Besides,  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Wilson  would 
like  the  proceeding." 

"  What  do  you  ground  that  remark  upon.  Miss  Clara?"  said 
the  housekeeper,  in  a  dry  tone. 

"  I  thought  you  used  them  for  firewood  occasionally,"  an- 
swered Clara,  with  an  innocent  expression  both  of  manner  and 
voice. 


218  WILFEID   CUMBERMEDE. 

The  most  prudent  answer  to  such  an  absurd  charge  would 
have  been  a  hiugh ;  but  Mrs.  Wilson  vouchsafed  no  reply  at 
all,  and  I  pretended  to  be  too  much  occupied  with  its  subject 
to  have  heard  it. 

After  lingering  a  little  while,  during  which  I  paid  attention 
chieliy  to  Mrs.  Wilson,  drawing  her  notice  to  the  state  of 
several  of  the  books,  I  proposed  we  should  have  a  peep  at  the 
armory.  We  went  in,  and,  glancing  over  the  walls  I  knew  so 
well,  I  scarcely  repressed  an  exclamation  :  I  could  not  be  mis- 
taken in  my  own  sword  !  There  it  hung,  in  the  centre  of  the 
principal  space — in  the  same  old  sheath,  split  half  way  up  from 
the  point !  To  the  hilt  hung  an  ivory  label  with  a  number 
upon  it.  I  suppose  I  made  some  inarticulate  sound,  for  Clara 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  me.  I  busied  myself  at  once  with  a  gor- 
geously hilted  scimitar  which  hung  near,  for  I  did  not  wish  to 
talk  about  it  then,  and  so  escaped  further  remark.  From  the 
armory  we  went  to  the  picture-gallery,  where  I  found  a  good 
many  pictures  had  been  added  to  the  collection.  They  were 
all  new,  and  mostly  brilliant  in  color.  I  was  no  judge,  but  I 
could  not  help  feeling  how  crude  and  harsh  they  looked  beside 
the  mellowed  tints  of  the  paintings,  chiefly  portraits,  amongst 
which  they  had  been  introduced. 

"  Horrid  ! — aren't  they  ?"  said  Clara,  as  if  she  divined  my 
thoughts ;  but  I  made  no  direct  reply,  unwilling  to  offend  Mrs. 
Wilson. 

When  we  were  once  more  on  horseback,  and  walking  across 
the  grass,  my  companion  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  daubs  ?"  she  said,  making  a  wry  face 
as  at  something  sour  enough  to  untune  her  nerves.  "  Those 
new  pictures  are  simply  frightful.  Any  one  of  them  would 
give  me  the  jaundice  in  a  week,  if  it  were  hung  in  our  draw- 
ing-room." 

"  I  can't  say  I  admire  them,"  I  returned.  "  And  at  all 
events  they  ought  not  to  be  on  the  same  walls  with  those  stately 
old  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

"  Parvenus,"  said  Clara.  "  Quite  in  their  place.  Pure  Man- 
chester taste — educated  on  calico-prints," 


A   RIDING   LESSON.  219 

"  If  that  is  your  opinion  of  the  family,  how  do  you  account 
for  their  keeping  everything  so  much  in  the  old  style?  They 
don't  seem  to  change  anything." 

"  All  for  their  own  honor  and  glory !  The  place  is  a  testi- 
mony to  the  antiquity  of  the  family,  of  which  they  are  a  shoot 
run  to  seed — and  very  ugly  seed  too  !  It's  enough  to  break 
one's  heart  to  think  of  such  a  glorious  old  place  in  such  hands. 
Did  you  ever  see  young  Brotherton  ?" 

"  I  knew  him  a  little  at  college.  He's  a  good-looking  fellow." 

"  Would  be,  if  it  weren't  for  the  bad  blood  in  him.  That 
comes  out  unmistakably.     He's  vulgar." 

"  Have  you  seen  much  of  him,  then  ?" 

"  Quite  enough.  I  never  heard  him  say  anything  vulgar,  or 
saw  him  do  anything  vulgar,  but  vulgar  he  is,  and  vulgar  is 
every  one  of  the  family.  A  man  who  is  always  aware  of  how 
rich  he  will  be,  and  how  good-looking  he  is,  and  what  a  fine 
match  he  would  make,  would  look  vulgar  lying  in  his  coffin." 

"You  are  positively  caustic.  Miss  Coningham." 

"  If  you  saw  their  house  in  Cheshire  !  But  blessings  be  on 
the  place  ! — it's  the  safety-valve  for  Mold  warp  Hall.  The 
natural  Manchester  passion  for  novelty  and  luxury  finds  a 
vent  there,  otherwise  they  could  not  keep  their  hands  ofif  it; 
and  what  was  best  would  be  sure  to  go  first.  Corchester  House 
ought  to  be  secured  to  the  family  by  Act  of  Parliament." 

"  Have  you  been  to  Corchester,  then  ?" 

"  I  was  there  for  a  week  once." 

"  And  how  did  you  like  it?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  was  not  comfortable.  I  was  always  feeling 
too  well  bred.  You  never  saw  such  colors  in  your  life.  Their 
drawing-rooms  are  quite  a  happy  family  of  the  most  quarrel- 
some tints." 

"  How  ever  did  they  come  ioto  this  property?" 

"They're  of  the  breed,  somehow — a  long  way  off  though. 
Shouldn't  I  like  to  see  a  new  claimant  come  up  and  oust  them 
after  all !  They  haven't  had  it  above  five-and-twenty  years,  or 
so.     Wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  The  old  man  was  kind  to  me  once." 


220  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  How  was  that  ?  I  thought  it  was  only  through  Mrs.  Wil- 
son you  knew  anything  of  them." 

I  told  her  the  story  of  the  apple. 

**  Well,  I  do  rather  like  old  Sir  Giles,"  she  said,  when  I  had 
done.  "  There's  a  good  deal  of  the  rough  country  gentleman 
about  him.  He's  a  better  man  than  his  son,  anyhow.  Sons 
will  succeed  fathers  though,  unfortunately." 

"I  don't  care  who  may  succeed  him,  if  only  I  could  get 
back  my  sword.  It's  too  bad,  with  an  armory  like  that,  to 
take  my  one  little  ewe-lamb  from  me." 

Here  I  had  another  story  to  tell.  After  many  interruptions 
in  the  way  of  questions  from  my  listener,  I  ended  it  with  the 
words — 

"And — will  you  believe  me? — I  saw  the  sword  hanging  in 
that  armory  this  afternoon,  close  by  that  splendid  hilt  I  pointed 
out  to  you." 

"How  could  you  tell  it  among  so  many?" 

"Just  as  you  could  tell  that  white  creature  from  this  brown 
one.     I  know  it,  hilt  and  scabbard,  as  well  as  a  human  face." 

"As  well  as  mine,  for  instance?" 

"  I  am  surer  of  it  than  I  was  of  you  this  morning.  It  hasn't 
changed  like  you." 

Our  talk  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman 
on  horseback  approaching  us.  I  thought  at  first  it  was  Clara's 
father,  setting  out  for  home,  and  coming  to  bid  us  good-bye ; 
but  I  soon  saw  I  was  mistaken.  Not,  however,  until  he  came 
quite  close,  did  I  recognize  GeoflTrey  Brotherton.  He  took  off 
his  hat  to  my  companion,  and  reined  in  his  horse. 

"  Are  you  going  to  give  us  in  charge  for  trespassing,  Mr. 
Brotherton?"  said  Clara. 

"  I  should  be  happy  to  take  you  in  charge  on  any  pretense, 
Miss  Coningham.     This  is  indeed  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

Here  he  looked  in  my  direction. 

"  Ah !"  he  said,  lifting  his  eyebrows,  "  I  thought  I  knew  the 
old  horse !     What  a  nice  cob  you\e  got,  Miss  Coningham  !" 

He  had  not  chosen  to  recognize  me,  of  which  I  was  glad,  for 
I  hardly  knew  how  to  order  my  behaviour  to  him.     I  had  for- 


A    RIDING   LESSON.  221 

gotten  nothing.  But,  ill  as  I  liked  him,  I  was  forced  to  confess 
that  he  had  greatly  improved  in  appearance — and  manners  too, 
notwithstanding  his  behaviour  was  as  supercilious  as  ever  to  me. 

"Do  you  call  her  a  cob,  then?"  said  Clara.  "  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  calling  her  a  cob. — She  belongs  to  Mr.  Cum- 
bermede." 

"  Ah  !"  he  said  again,  arching  his  eyebrows  as  before,  and 
looking  straight  at  me  as  if  he  had  never  seen  me  in  his  life. 

I  think  I  succeeded  in  looking  almost  unaware  of  his  pre- 
sence. At  least  so  I  tried  to  look,  feeling  quite  thankful  to 
Clara  for  defending  my  mare :  to  hear  her  called  a  cob  was 
hateful  to  me.  After  listening  to  a  few  more  of  his  remarks 
upon  her,  made  without  the  slightest  reference  to  her  owner, 
who  was  not  three  yards  from  her  side,  Clara  asked  him,  in  the 
easiest  manner — 

"  Shall  you  be  at  the  county  ball  ?" 

"When  is  that?" 

"Next  Thursday." 

"  Are  you  going  V* 

"  I  hope  so." 

"Then  will  you  dance  the  first  waltz  with  mef 

"No,  Mr.  Brotherton." 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  shall  be  in  London." 

"  When  do  you  rejoin  your  regiment  ?" 

"  Oh !  I've  got  a  month's  leave." 

"  Then  why  won't  you  be  at  the  ball  ?" 

"  Because  you  won't  promise  me  the  first  waltz." 

"  Well— rather  than  the  belles  of  Minstercombe  should— 
ring  their  sweet  changes  in  vain,  I  suppose  I  must  indulge  you." 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  he  said,  lifted  his  hat,  and  rode  on. 

My  blood  was  in  a  cold  boil— if  the  phrase  can  convey  an 
idea.  Clara  rode  on  homewards  without  looking  round,  and  I 
followed,  keeping  a  few  yards  behind  her,  hardly  thinking  at 
all,  my  very  brain  seeming  cold  inside  my  skull. 

There  was  small  occasion  as  yet,  some  of  my  readers  may 
think.  I  cannot  help  it— so  it  was.  When  we  had  gone  in 
silence  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  or  so,  she  glanced  round  at 


222  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

me  with  a  quick,  sly  half  look,  and  burst  out  laughing.  I  was 
by  her  side  iu  au  instant;  her  laugh  had  dissolved  the  spell 
that  bound  me.     But  she  spoke  first. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?"  she  said,  with  a  slow  interroga- 
tion. 

"  Well,  Miss  Coningham?"  I  rejoined,  but  bitterly,  I  suppose. 

"AVhat's  the  matter?"  she  retorted  sharply,  looking  up  at 
me,  full  in  the  face,  whether  in  real  or  feigned  anger  I  could 
not  tell. 

"  How  could  you  talk  of  that  fellow  as  you  did,  and  then 
talk  so  to  him?" 

"What  right  have  you  to  put  such  questions  to  me?  I  am 
not  aware  of  any  intimacy  to  justify  it." 

"  Then  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  my  surprise  remains  the 
same." 

"Why,  you  silly  boy  !"  she  returned,  laughing  aloud,  "don't 
you  know  he  is,  or  will  be,  my  feudal  lord  ?  I  am  bound  to  be 
polite  to  him.  What  would  become  of  poor  grandpapa  if  I 
were  to  give  him  offence?  Besides,  I  have  been  in  the  house 
with  him  for  a  week.  He's  not  a  Crichton;  but  he  dances 
well.     Are  you  going  to  the  ball  ?" 

"  I  never  heard  of  it.  I  have  not  for  weeks  thought  of  any- 
thing but — but — my  writing,  till  this  morning.  Now  I  fear 
I  shall  find  it  difficult  to  return  to  it.  It  looks  ages  since  I 
saddled  the  mare !" 

"  But  if  you're  ever  to  be  an  author,  it  won't  do  to  shut 
yourself  up.  You  ought  to  see  as  much  of  the  world  as  you 
can.     I  should  strongly  advise  you  to  go  to  the  ball." 

"  I  would  willingly  obey  you — ^but — but — I  don't  know  how 
to  get  a  ticket." 

"  Oh  !  if  you  would  like  to  go,  papa  will  have  much  plea- 
sure in  managing  that.     I  will  ask  him." 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  I  returned.  "  I  should  enjoy 
seeing  Mr.  Brotherton  dance." 

She  laughed  again,  but  it  was  an  oddly  constrained  laugh. 
"  It's  quite  time  I  were  at  home,"  she  said,  and  gave  the  mare 
the  rein,  increasing  her  speed  as  we  approached  the  house. 


A   RIDING   LESSON.  223 

Before  I  reached  the  little  gate  she  had  given  her  up  to  the 
gardener,  who  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  us. 

"  Put  on  her  own  saddle,  and  bring  the  mare  round  at  once, 
please,"  I  called  to  the  man,  as  he  led  her  and  the  horse  away 
together. 

*'  Won't  you  come  in,  Wilfrid  ?"  said  Clara,  kindly  and 
seriously. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  returned ;  for  I  was  full  of  rage  and 
jealousy.  To  do  myself  justice,  however,  mingled  with  these 
was  pity  that  such  a  girl  should  be  so  easy  with  such  a  man. 
But  I  could  not  tell  her  what  I  knew  of  him.  Even  if  I 
could  have  done  so,  I  dared  not ;  for  the  man  who  shows 
himself  jealous  must  be  readily  believed  capable  of  lying,  or 
at  least  misrepresenting. 

"  Then  I  must  bid  you  good  evening,"  she  said,  as  quietly  as 
if  we  had  been  together  only  five  minutes.  "  I  am  so  much 
obliged  to  you  for  letting  me  ride  your  mare !" 

She  gave  me  a  half-friendly,  half-stately  little  bow,  and 
walked  into  the  house.  In  a  few  moments  the  gardener  re- 
turned with  the  mare,  and  I  mounted  and  rode  home  in  any- 
thing but  a  pleasant  mood.  Having  stabled  her,  I  roamed 
about  the  fields  till  it  was  dark,  thinking  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  preferred  woods  to  open  grass.  When  I  went  in  at 
length  I  did  my  best  to  behave  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
My  uncle  must,  however,  have  seen  that  something  was  amiss, 
but  he  took  no  notice,  for  he  never  forced  or  even  led  up  to 
confidences.  I  retired  early  to  bed,  and  passed  an  hour  or  two 
of  wretchedness,  thinking  over  everything  that  had  happened — 
the  one  moment  calling  her  a  coquette,  and  the  next  ransack- 
ing a  fresh  corner  of  my  brain  to  find  fresh  excuses  for  her. 
At  length  I  was  able  to  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  I  did  not 
understand  her,  and  having  given  in  so  far,  I  soon  fell  asleep. 


224  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

A    DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I  TRUST  it  will  not  be  regarded  as  a  sign  of  shallowness  of 
nature  that  I  rose  in  the  morning  comparatively  calm.  Clara 
was  to  me  as  yet  only  the  type  of  general  womanhood,  around 
which  the  amorphous  loves  of  my  manhood  had  begun  to 
gather — not  the  one  woman  whom  the  individual  man  in  me 
had  chosen  and  loved.  How  could  I  love  that  which  I  did 
not  yet  know  :  she  was  but  the  heroine  of  my  objective  life, 
as  projected  from  me  by  my  imagination — not  the  love  of  my 
being.  Therefore,  when  the  wings  of  sleep  had  fanned  the 
motes  from  my  brain,  I  was  cool  enough,  notwithstanding  an 
occasional  tongue  of  indignant  flame  from  the  ashes  of  last 
night's  fire,  to  sit  down  to  my  books,  and  read  with  tolerable 
attention  my  morning  portion  of  Plato.  But  when  I  turned 
to  my  novel,  I  found  I  was  not  master  of  the  situation.  My 
hero  too  was  in  love  and  in  trouble  ;  and  after  I  had  written 
a  sentence  and  a  half,  I  found  myself  experiencing  the  fate  of 
Heine  when  he  roused  the  Sphinx  of  past  love  by  reading  his 
own  old  verses : 

Lebendig  ward  das  Marmorbild, 
Der  Stein  begann  zu  achzen. 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room, 
eager  to  burn  my  moth-wings  yet  again  in  the  old  fire.  And, 
by  the  way,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  moths  enjoy  their 
fate,  and  die  in  ecstasies.  I  was  however  too  shy  to  venture 
on  a  call  that  very  morning :  I  should  both  feel  and  look 
foolish.  But  there  was  no  more  work  to  be  done  then.  I 
hurried  to  the  stable,  saddled  my  mare,  and  set  out  for  a  gal- 
lop across  the  farm,  but  towards  the  high  road  leading  to 
Minstercombe,  in  the  opposite  direction,  that  is,  from  the  Hall, 
which  I  flattered  myself  was  to  act  in  a  strong-minded  man- 
ner.    There  were  several  hedges  and  fences  between,  but  I 


A   DISAPPOINTMENT.  225 

cleared  them  all  without  discomfiture.  The  last  jump  was  into 
a  lane.  We,  that  is  my  mare  and  I,  had  scarcely  alighted, 
when  my  ears  were  invaded  by  a  shout.  The  voice  was  the 
least  welcome  I  could  have  heard,  that  of  Brotherton.  I  turned 
and  saw  him  riding  up  the  hill,  with  a  lady  by  his  side. 

"  Hillo !"  he  cried,  almost  angrily,  "  you  don't  deserve  to 
have  such  a  cob."  (He  ivould  call  her  a  cob.)  "  You  don't 
know  how  to  use  her.     To  jump  her  on  the  hard  like  that !" 

It  was  Clara  with  him ! — on  the  steady  stiff  old  brown 
horse !  My  first  impulse  was  to  jump  my  mare  over  the  oppo- 
site fence,  and  take  no  heed  of  them,  but  clearly  it  was  not  to 
be  attempted,  for  the  ground  fell  considerably  on  the  other 
side.  My  next  thought  was  to  ride  away  and  leave  them. 
My  third  was  one  which  some  of  my  readers  will  judge  Quix- 
otic, but  I  have  a  profound  reverence  for  the  Don — and  that 
not  merely  because  I  have  so  often  acted  as  foolishly  as  he. 
This  last  I  proceeded  to  carry  out,  and  lifting  my  hat,  rode  to 
meet  them.  Taking  no  notice  whatever  of  Brotherton,  I 
addressed  Clara — in  what  I  fancied  a  distant  and  dignified 
manner,  which  she  might,  if  she  pleased,  attribute  to  the 
presence  of  her  companion. 

"  Miss  Coningham,"  I  said,  "  will  you  allow  me  the  honor 
of  oflTering  you  my  mare?      She  will  carry  you  better." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  she  returned,  in  a 
similar  tone,  but  with  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  "  I  am  greatly 
obliged  to  you.  I  cannot  pretend  to  prefer  old  cross-bones  to 
the  beautiful  creature  which  gave  me  so  much  pleasure 
yesterday." 

I  was  off  and  by  her  side  in  a  moment,  helping  her  to  dis- 
mount. I  did  not  even  look  at  Brotherton,  though  I  felt  he 
was  staring  like  an  equestrian  statue.  While  I  shifted  the 
saddles,  Clara  broke  the  silence  which  I  was  in  too  great  an 
inward  commotion  to  heed,  by  asking, 

"  What  is  the  name  of  your  beauty,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?" 
"  Lilith,"  I  answered. 

"  What  a  pretty  name !    I  never  heard  it  before.    Is  it  after 
any  one — any  public  character,  I  mean?'' 
15 


226  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Quite  a  public  character,"  I  returned — "Adam's  first  wife." 
"  I  never  heard  he  had  two,"  she  rejoined,  laughing. 
"  The  Jews  say  he  had.     She  is  a  demon  now,  and  the  pest 
of  married  w^omen  and  their  babies." 

"  AVliat  a  horrible  name  to  give  your  mare!" 
"  The  name  is  pretty  enough.     And  what  does  it  matter 
what  the  woman  was,  so  long  as  she  was  beautiful." 

"  I  don't  quite  agree  with  you  there,"  she  returned,  with 
what  I  chose  to  consider  a  forced  laugh. 

By  this  time  her  saddle  was  firm  on  Lilith,  and  in  an 
instant  she  was  mounted.  Brotherton  moved  to  ride  on,  and 
the  mare  followed  him.     Clara  looked  back. 

"  You  will  catch  us  up  in  a  moment,"  she  said,  possibly  a 
little  puzzled  between  us. 

I  was  busy  tightening  my  girths,  and  fumbled  over  the  job 
more  than  was  necessary.  Brotherton  was  several  yards 
ahead,  and  she  was  walking  the  mare  slowly  after  him.  I 
made  her  no  answer,  but  mounted,  and  rode  in  the  opposite 
direction.  It  was  rude,  of  course,  but  I  did  it.  I  could  not 
have  gone  with  them,  and  was  afraid  if  I  told  her  so  she 
would  dismount,  and  refuse  the  mare. 

In  a  tumult  of  feeling  I  rode  on  without  looking  behind  me, 
careless  whither — how  long  I  cannot  tell,  before  I  woke  up  to 
find  that  I  did  not  know  where  I  was.  I  must  ride  on  till  I 
came  to  some  place  I  knew,  or  met  some  one  who  could  teU 
me.  Lane  led  into  lane,  buried  betwixt  deep  banks  and  lofty 
hedges,  or  passing  through  small  woods,  until  I  ascended  a 
rising  ground,  whence  I  got  a  view  of  the  country.  At  once 
its  features  began  to  dawn  upon  me :  I  was  close  to  the  village 
of  Aldwick,  where  I  had  been  at  school,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
I  rode  into  its  wide  straggling  street.  Not  a  mark  of  change 
had  passed  upon  it.  There  were  the  same  dogs  about  the 
doors,  and  the  same  cats  in  the  windows.  The  very  ferns  in 
the  chinks  of  the  old  draw  well  appeared  the  same  ;  and  the 
children  had  not  grown  an  inch  since  first  I  drove  into  the 
place  marvelling  at  its  w^ondrous  activity. 

The  sun  was  hot,  and  my  horse  seemed  rather  tired.     I  was 


A   DISAPPOINTMENT.  227 

in  no  mood  to  see  any  one,  and  besides  had  no  pleasant  recol- 
lections of  my  last  visit  to  Mr.  Elder,  so  I  drew  up  at  the  door 
of  the  little  inn,  and  having  sent  my  horse  to  the  stable  for  an 
hour's  rest  and  a  feed  of  oats,  went  into  the  sanded  parlor, 
ordered  a  glass  of  ale,  and  sat  staring  at  the  china  shep- 
herdesses on  the  chimney-piece.  I  see  them  now,  the  ugly 
things,  as  plainly  as  if  that  had  been  an  hour  of  the  hajipiest 
reflections.  I  thought  I  was  miserable,  but  I  know  now  that 
although  I  was  much  disappointed,  and  everything  looked 
dreary  and  uninteresting  about  me,  I  was  a  long  way  off 
misery.  Indeed  the  passing  vision  of  a  neat  unbouneted  vil- 
lage-girl on  her  way  to  the  well,  was  attractive  enough  still  to 
make  me  rise  and  go  to  the  window.  While  watching,  as  she 
wound  up  the  long  chain  for  the  appearance  of  the  familiar 
mossy  bucket,  dripping  diamonds,  as  it  gleamed  out  of  the 
dark  well  into  the  sudden  sunlight,  I  heard  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs,  and  turned  to  see  what  kind  of  apparition 
would  come.  Presently  it  appeared,  and  made  straight  for 
the  inn.  The  rider  was  Mr.  Coningham  I  I  drew  back  to 
escape  his  notice,  but  his  quick  eye  had  caught  sight  of  me, 
for  he  came  into  the  room  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  We  are  fated  to  meet,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  he  said.  "  I 
only  stopped  to  give  my  horse  some  meal  and  water,  and  had 
no  intention  of  dismounting.  Ale  ?  I'll  have  a  glass  of  ale, 
too,"  he  added,  ringing  the  bell.  "I  think  I'll  let  him  have  a 
feed,  and  have  a  mouthful  of  bread  and  cheese  myself." 

He  went  out,  and  had,  I  supposed,  gone  to  see  that  his 
horse  had  his  proper  allowance  of  oats,  for  when  he  returned 
he  said  merrily : 

"What  have  you  done  with  my  daughter,  Mr.  Cumber- 
mede?" 

"  Why  should  you  think  me  responsible  for  her,  Mr.  Con- 
ingham?" I  asked,  attempting  a  smile. 

No  doubt  he  detected  the  attempt  in  the  smile,  for  he 
looked  at  me  with  a  sharpened  expression  of  the  eyes,  as  he 
answered — still  in  a  merry  tone : 

"  When  I  saw  her  last  she  was  mounted  on  your  horse,  and 


228  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

you  were  on  my  father's.  I  find  you  still  on  my  father's 
horse,  ami  your  owu — with  the  lady — nowhere.  Have  I  made 
out  a  case  of  suspicion  ?" 

"  It  is  I  who  have  cause  of  complaint,"  I  returned — "  who 
have  neither  lady  nor  mare — except  indeed  you  imagine  I 
have  in  the  case  of  the  latter  made  a  good  exchange." 

*'  Hardly  that,  I  imagine,  if  yours  is  half  so  good  as  she 
looks.     But,  seriously,  have  you  seen  Clara  to-day  ?" 

I  told  him  the  facts  as  lightly  as  I  could.  When  I  had 
finished,  he  stared  at  me  with  an  expression  which  for  the 
moment  I  avoided  attempting  to  interpret. 

*' On  horseback  with  Mr.  Brotherton?"  he  said,  uttering 
the  words  as  if  every  syllable  had  been  separately  italicized. 

"  You  will  find  it  as  I  say,"  I  replied,  feeling  offended. 

"  My  dear  boy — excuse  my  freedom,"  he  returned — "  I  am 
nearly  three  times  your  age — you  do  not  imagine  I  doubt  a 
hair's  breadth  of  your  statement !  But — the  giddy  goose ! — 
How  could  you  be  so  silly  ?  Pardon  me  again.  Your  un- 
selfishness is  positively  amusing !  To  hand  over  your  horse  to 
her,  and  then  ride  away  all  by  yourself  on  that — respectable 
stager !" 

"  Don't  abuse  the  old  horse,"  I  returned.  "  He  is  respecta- 
ble, and  has  been  more  in  his  day." 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  understand  it. 
Mr.  Cumbermede,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  should  not  advise 
you  to  choose  the  law  for  a  profession.  The  man  who  does 
not  regard  his  own  rights,  will  hardly  do  for  an  adviser  in  the 
affairs  of  others." 

"  You  were  not  going  to  consult  me,  Mr.  Coningham,  were 
you  ?"  I  said,  now  able  at  length  to  laugh  without  effort. 

"  Not  quite  that,"  he  returned,  also  laughing.  "  But  a 
right,  you  know,  is  one  of  the  most  serious  things  in  the 
world." 

It  seemed  irrelevant  to  the  trifling  character  of  the  case.  I 
could  not  understand  why  he  should  regard  the  affair  as  of 
such  importance. 

"  I  have  been  in  the  way  of  thinking,"  I  said,  "  that  one  of 


A   DISAPPOINTMENT.  229 

the  advantages  of  having  rights  was,  that  you  could  part  with 
them  when  you  pleased.  You're  not  bound  to  insist  on  your 
rights,  are  you  T* 

"  Certainly  you  would  not  subject  yourself  to  a  criminal 
action  by  foregoing  them,  but  you  might  suggest  to  your 
friends  a  commission  of  lunacy.  I  see  how  it  is.  That  is 
your  uncle  all  over !     He  was  never  a  man  of  the  world." 

"  You  are  right  there,  Mr.  Coningham.  It  is  the  last 
epithet  any  one  would  give  my  uncle." 

"  And  the  first  any  one  would  give  me,  you  imply,  Mr. 
Cumbermede." 

"  I  had  no  such  intention,"  I  answered.  "  That  would  have 
been  rude." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  should  have  taken  it  as  a  compli- 
ment. The  man  who  does  not  care  about  his  rights,  depend 
upon  it,  will  be  made  a  tool  of  by  those  that  do.  If  he  is  not 
a  spoon  already,  he  will  become  one.  I  shouldn't  have  iffed 
it  at  all  if  I  hadn't  known  you." 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  be  rude  to  me." 

"  I  don't.  A  little  experience  will  set  you  all  right ;  and 
that  you  are  in  a  fair  chance  of  getting  if  you  push  your 
fortune  as  a  literary  man.  But  I  must  be  off.  I  hope  we 
may  have  another  chat  before  long." 

He  finished  his  ale,  rose,  bade  me  good-bye,  and  went  to  the 
stable.  As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight,  I  also  mounted  and 
rode  homewards. 

By  the  time  I  reached  the  gate  of  the  park,  my  depression 
had  nearly  vanished.  The  comforting  powers  of  sun  and 
shadow,  of  sky  and  field,  of  wind  and  motion,  had  restored 
me  to  myself  With  a  side  glance  at  the  windows  of  the 
cottage  as  I  passed,  and  the  glimpse  of  a  bright  figure  seated 
in  the  drawing-room  window,  I  made  for  the  stable,  and  found 
my  Lilith  waiting  me.  Once  more  I  .shifted  my  saddle,  and 
rode  home,  without  even  another  glance  at  the  window  as  I 
passed. 

A  day  or  two  after,  I  received  from  Mr.  Coningham  a 
ticket  for  the  county  ball,  accompanied  by  a  kind  note.     I  re- 


230  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

turned  it  at  once,  with  the  excuse  that  I  feared  incapacitating 
myself  for  work  by  dissipation. 

Henceforward  I  avoided  the  park,  and  did  not  again  see 
Clara  before  leaving  for  London.  I  had  a  note  from  her, 
thanking  me  for  Lilith,  and  reproaching  me  for  having  left 
her  to  the  company  of  Mr.  Brotherton,  which  I  thought  cool 
enough,  seeing  they  had  set  out  together  without  the  slightest 
expectation  of  meeting  me.  I  returned  a  civil  answer,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  it. 

I  must  again  say  for  myself,  that  it  was  not  mere  jealousy 
of  Brotherton  that  led  me  to  act  as  I  did.  I  could  not  and 
would  not  get  over  the  contradiction  between  the  way  in 
which  she  had  spoken  0/  him,  and  the  way  in  which  she  spoke 
to  him,  followed  by  her  accompanying  him  in  the  long  ride  to 
which  the  state  of  my  mare  bore  witness.  I  concluded  that, 
although  she  migjht  mean  no  harm,  she  was  not  truthful.  To 
talk  of  a  man  with  such  contempt,  and  then  behave  to  him 
with  such  frankness,  appeared  to  me  altogether  unjustifiable. 
At  the  same  time  their  mutual  familiarity  pointed  to  some 
foregone  intimacy,  in  which,  had  I  been  so  inclined,  I  might 
have  found  some  excuse  for  her,  seeing  she  might  have  altered 
her  opinion  of  him,  and  might  yet  find  it  very  difiicult  to 
alter  the  tone  of  their  intercourse. 


U^  LONDON.  231 


CHAPTER   XXVIIL 

IN   LONDON. 

My  real  object  being  my  personal'history  in  relation  to  cer- 
tain facts  and  events,  I  must,  in  order  to  restrain  myself  from 
that  discursiveness  the  impulse  to  which  is  an  urging  of  the 
historical  as  well  as  the  artistic  Satan,  even  run  the  risk  of 
appearing  to  have  been  blind  to  many  things  going  on  around 
me  which  must  have  claimed  a  large  place  had  I  been  writing 
an  autobiography  instead  of  a  distinct  portion  of  one. 

I  set  out  with  my  manuscript  in  my  portmanteau,  and  a  few 
pounds  in  my  pocket,  determined  to  cost  my  uncle  as  little  as 
I  could. 

I  well  remember  the  dreariness  of  London,  as  I  entered  it 
on  the  top  of  a  coach,  in  the  closing  darkness  of  a  late 
autumn  afternoon.  The  shops  were  not  all  yet  lighted,  and  a 
drizzly  rain  was  falling.  But  these  outer  influences  hardly 
got  beyond  my  mental  skin,  for  I  had  written  to  Charley,  and 
hoped  to  find  him  waiting  for  me  at  the  coach  office.  Kor 
was  I  disappointed,  and  in  a  moment  all  discomfort  was  for- 
gotten.    He  took  me  to  his  chambers  in  the  New  Inn. 

I  found  him  looking  better,  and  apparently,  for  him,  in 
good  spirits.  It  was  soon  arranged,  at  his  entreaty,  that  for 
the  present  I  should  share  his  sitting-room,  and  have  a  bed 
put  up  for  me  in  a  closet  he  did  not  want.  The  next  day  I 
called  upon  certain  publishers  and  left  with  them  my  manu- 
script. Its  fate  is  of  no  consequence  here,  and  I  did  not  then 
wait  to  know  it,  but  at  once  began  to  fly  my  feather  at  lower 
game,  writing  short  papers  and  tales  for  the  magazines.  I 
had  a  little  success  from  the  first ;  and  although  the  surround- 
ings of  my  new  abode  were  dreary  enough,  although,  now  and 
then,  especially  when  the  winter  sun  shone  bright  into  the 
court,  I  longed  for  one  peep  into  space  across  the  field   that 


232  WILFl^ID   CUMBERMEDE. 

now  itself  lay  far  iu  the  distance,  I  soon  settled  to  my  work, 
and  found  the  life  an  enjoyable  one. '  To  work  beside  Charley 
the  most  of  the  day,  and  go  with  him  in  the  evening  to  some 
place  of  amusement,  or  to  visit  some  of  the  men  in  the 
chambers  about  us,  was  for  the  time  a  satisfactory  mode  of  ex- 
istence. 

I  soon  told  him  the  story  of  my  little  passage  with  Clara. 
During  the  narrative  he  looked  uncomfortable  and  indeed 
troubled,  but  as  soon  as  he  found  I  had  given  up  the  affair, 
his  countenance  brightened. 

"  I'm  very  glad  you've  got  over  it  so  well,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  I've  had  a  good  deliverance,"  I  returned. 

He  made  no  reply.  Neither  did  his  face  reveal  his 
thoughts,  for  I  could  not  read  the  confused  expression  it  bore. 

That  he  should  not  fall  in  with  my  judgment  would  never 
have  surprised  me,  for  he  always  hung  back  from  condemna- 
tioD,  partly,  I  presume,  from  being  even  morbidly  conscious 
of  his  own  imperfections,  and  partly  that  his  prolific  sug- 
gestion supplied  endless  possibilities  to  explain  or  else  perplex 
everything.  I  had  been  often  even  annoyed  by  his  use  of  the 
most  refined  invention  to  excuse,  as  I  thought,  behaviour  the 
most  palpably  wrong.  I  believe  now  it  was  rather  to  account 
for  it  than  to  excuse  it. 

"  Well,  Charley,"  I  would  say  in  such  case,  "  I  am  sure  you 
would  never  have  done  such  a  thing." 

"  I  cannot  guarantee  my  own  conduct  for  a  moment,"  he 
would  answer — or,  taking  the  other  tack,  would  reply :  "  Just 
for  that  reason  I  cannot  believe  the  man  would  have  done  it." 

But  the  oddity  of  the  present  case  was  that  he  said  nothing. 
I  should  however  have  forgotten  all  about  it,  but  that  after 
some  time  I  began  to  observe  that  as  often  as  I  alluded  to 
Clara — which  was  not  often — ^he  contrived  to  turn  the  remark 
aside,  and  always  without  saying  a  syllable  about  her.  The 
conclusion  I  came  to  was  that,  while  he  shrunk  from  con- 
demnation, he  was  at  the  same  time  unwilling  to  disturb  the 
present  serenity  of  my  mind  by  defending  her  conduct. 

Early  in  the  spring,  an  unpleasant  event  occurred  of  which 


IN   LONDON.  233 

I  might  have  foreseen  the  possibility.  One  morning  I  was 
alone,  working  busily,  when  the  door  opened. 

"  Why,  Charley — back  already !"  I  exclaimed,  going  on  to 
finish  my  sentence. 

Keceiving  no  answer,  I  looked  up  from  my  paper,  and 
started  to  my  feet.  Mr.  Osborne  stood  before  me,  scrutinizing 
me  with  severe  gray  eyes.  I  think  he  knew  me  from  the  first, 
but  I  was  sufiiciently  altered  to  make  it  doubtful. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  coldly — "  I  thought  these 
were  Charles  Osborne's  chambers,"  and  he  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

"  They  are  his  chambers,  Mr.  Osborne,"  I  replied,  recover- 
ing myself  with  an  effort,  and  looking  him  in  the  face. 

"  My  son  had  not  informed  me  that  he  shared  them  with 
another." 

"  We  are  very  old  friends,  Mr.  Osborne." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  stood  regarding  me  fixedly. 

"  You  do  not  remember  me,  sir,"  I  said.  "  I  am  Wilfrid 
Cumbermede." 

"  I  have  cause  to  remember  you." 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down,  sir  ?  Charley  will  be  home  in 
less  than  an  hour — I  quite  expect." 

Again  he  turned  his  back'  as  if  about  to  leave  me. 

"  If  my  presence  is  disagreeable  to  you,"  I  said,  annoyed  at 
his  rudeness,  "  I  will  go." 

"  As  you  please,"  he  answered. 

I  left  my  papers,  caught  up  my  hat,  and  went  out  of  the 
room  and  the  house.  I  said  "  Good-morning,"  but  he  made 
no  return. 

Not  until  nearly  eight  o'clock  did  I  re-enter.  I  had  of 
course  made  up  my  mind  that  Charley  and  I  must  part.  When 
I  opened  the  door,  I  thought  at  first  there  was  no  one  there ; 
there  were  no  lights,  and  the  fire  had  burned  low. 

"Is  that  you,  Wilfrid?"  said  Charley. 

He  was  lying  on  the  sofa. 

"  Yes,  Charley,"  I  returned. 

"  Come  in,  old  fellow.     The  aveno-cr  of  blood  is  not  behind 


234  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

me,"  he  said,  in  a  mocking  tone,  as  he  rose  and  came  to  meet 
me.  "  I've  been  having  such  a  dose  of  damnation— all  for 
your  sake !" 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Charley.  But  I  think  we  are  both  to 
blame.  Your  father  ought  to  have  been  told.  You  see  day 
after  day  went  by,  and — tfomehow — " 

"  Tut,  tut !  never  mind.  What  does  it  matter — except  that 
it's  a  disgrace  to  be  dependent  on  such  a  man?  I  wish  I  had 
the  courage  to  starve." 

"  He's  your  father,  Charley.     Nothing  can  alter  that." 

"  That's  the  misery  of  it.  And  then  to  tell  people  God  is 
their  father.  If  he's  like  mine,  he's  done  us  a  mighty  favor 
in  creating  us!  I  can't  say  I  feel  grateful  for  it.  I  must 
turn  out  to-morrow." 

"  No,  Charley.  The  place  has  no  attraction  for  me-  without 
you,  and  it  was  yours  first.  Besides  I  can't  afford  to  pay  so 
much.  I  will  find  another  to-morrow.  But  we  shall  see  each 
other  often,  and  perhaps  get  through  more  work  apa^.  I 
hope  he  didn't  insist  on  your  never  seeing  me." 

"  He  did  try  it  on ;  but  there  I  stuck  fast,  threatening  to 
vanish,  and  scramble  for  my  living  as  I  be^t  might.  I  told 
him  you  were  a  far  better  man  than  me,  and  did  me  nothing 
but  good.  But  that  only  made  the  matter  worse,  proving 
your  influence  over  me.  Let's  drop  it.  It's  no  use.  Let's  go 
to  the  Olympic." 

The  next  day,  I  looked  for  a  lodging  in  Camden  Town, 
attracted  by  the  probable  cheapness,  and  by  the  grass  of  the 
Regent's  Park ;  and  having  found  a  decent  place,  took  my 
things  away  while  Charley  was  out.  I  haji  not  got  them,  few 
as  they  were,  in  order  in  my  new  quarters  before  he  made  his 
appearance ;  and  as  long  as  I  was  there  few  days  passed  on 
which  we  did  not  meet. 

One  evening  he  walked  in,  accompanied  by  a  fine-looking 
young  fellow  whom  I  thought  I  must  know,  and  presently 
recognized  as  Home,  our  old  schoolfellow,  with  whom  I  had 
fought  in  Switzerland.  We  had  become  good  friends  before 
we  parted,  and  Charley  and  he  had  met  repeatedly  since. 


IN   LONDON.  235 

"  What  are  you  doing  now,  Home  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"I  have  just  taken  deacon's  orders,"  he  answered.  "A 
friend  of  my  father's  has  promised  me  a  living.  I've  been 
hanging  about  quite  long  enough  now.  A  fellow  ought  to  do 
something  for  his  existence." 

"  I  can't  think  how  a  strong  fellow  like  you  can  take  to 
mumbling  prayers  and  reading  sermons,"  said  Charley. 

"  It  ain't  nice,"  said  Home,  "  but  it's  a  very  respectable  pro- 
fession.    There  are  viscounts  in  it,  and  lots  of  honorables." 

"I  dare  say,"  returned  Charley,  with  drought.  "But  a 
nerveless  creature  like  me,  who  can't  even  hit  straight  from 
the  shoulder,  would  be  good  enough  for  that.  A  giant  like 
you,  Home !" 

"  Ah  !  by  the  bye,  Osborne,"  said  Home,  not  in  love  with 
the  prospect,  and  willing  to  turn  the  conversation,  "  I  thought 
you  were  a  church-calf  yourself." 

"Honestly,  Home,  I  don't  know  whether  it  isn't  the 
biggest  of  all  big  humbugs." 

"  Oh,  but — Osborne ! — it  ain't  the  thing,  you  know,  to  talk 
like  that  of  a  profession  adopted  by  so  many  great  men  fit  to 
honor  any  profession,"  returned  Home,  who  was  not  one  of 
the  brightest  of  mortals,  and  was  jealous  of  the  profession 
just  inasmuch  as  it  was  destined  for  his  own. 

"  Either  the  profession  honors  the  men,  or  the  men  dis- 
honor themselves,"  said  Charley.  "  I  believe  it  claims  to  have 
been  founded  by  a  man  called  Jesus  Christ,  if  such  a  man 
ever  existed  except  in  the  fancy  of  his  priesthood." 

"  Well,  really,"  expostulated  Home,  looking,  I  must  say, 
considerably  shocked,  "  I  shouldn't  have  expected  that  from 
the  son  of  a  clergyman !" 

"I  couldn't  help  my  father.  I  wasn't  consulted,"  said 
Charley,  with  an  uncomfortable  grin.  "  But,  at  any  rate,  my 
father  fancies  he  believes  all  the  story.     I  fancy  I  don't." 

"  Then  you're  an  infidel,  Osborne." 

"  Perhaps.     Do  you  think  that  so  very  horrible  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  Tom  Paine,  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  you 
know  I" 


236  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Well,  Homo,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing  I  think  worse 
than  being  an  infidel." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Taking  to  the  church  for  a  living." 

"  I  don't  see  that." 

"  Either  the  so-called  truths  it  advocates  are  things  to  live 
and  die  for,  or  they  are  the  veriest  oldwives'  fables  going.  Do 
you  know  who  was  the  fii'st  to  do  what  you  are  about  now  ?" 

"  No.     I  can't  say.     I'm  not  up  in  church  history  yet." 

"  It  was  Judas." 

I  am  not  sure  that  Charley  was  right,  but  that  is  what  he 
said.  I  was  taking  no  part  in  the  conversation,  but  listening 
eagerly,  with  a  strong  suspicion  that  Charley  had  been  leading 
Home  to  this  very  point. 

"  A  man  must  live,"  said  Home. 

"  That's  precisely  what  I  take  it  Judas  said :  for  my  part,  I 
don't  see  it." 

"Don't  see  what?" 

"  That  a  man  must  live.  It  would  be  a  far  more  incon- 
trovertible assertion  that  a  man  must  die — and  a  more  com- 
fortable one  too." 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  understand  you,  Osborne  !  You 
make  a  fellow  feel  deuced  queer  with  your  remarks." 

"  At  all  events,  you  will  allow  that  the  first  of  them — they 
call  them  apostles,  don't  they  ? — didn't  take  to  preaching  the 
gospel  for  the  sake  of  a  living.  What  a  satire  on  the  whole 
kit  of  them  that  word  living,  so  constantly  in  all  their  mouths, 
is !  It  seems  to  me  that  Messrs.  Peter  and  Paul  and  Matthew, 
and  all  the  rest  of  them,  forsook  their  livings  for  a  good 
chance  of  something  rather  the  contrary." 

"  Then  it  ivas  true — what  they  said  about  you  at  Forest's  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  said,"  returned  Charley ;  "  but 
before  I  would  pretend  to  believe  what  I  didn't         " 

"  But  I  do  believe  it,  Osborne." 

"  May  I  ask  on  what  grounds  ?" 

"  Why — everybody  does." 

"  That  would  be  no  reason,  even  if  it  were  a  fact,  which  it 


IN    LONDON.  237 

is  not.  You  believe  it,  or,  rather,  choose  to  think  you  believe 
it,  because  you've  beeii  told  it.  Sooner  than  pretend  to  teach 
what  I  had  never  learned,  and  be  looked  up  to  as  a  pattern 
of  godliness,  I  would  'list  in  the  ranks.  There,  at  least,  a 
man  might  earn  an  honest  living." 

"  By  Jove !  You  do  make  a  fellow  feel  uncomfortable !" 
repeated  Home :  "  You've  got  such  a — such  an  uncompromis- 
ing way  of  saying  things— to  use  a  mild  expression!" 

"  I  think  it's  a  sneaking  thing  to  do,  and  unworthy  of  a 
gentleman." 

"  I  don't  see  what  right  you've  got  to  bully  me  in  that  way," 
3aid  Home,  getting  angry. 

It  was  time  to  interfere. 

"  Charley  is  so  afraid  of  being  dishonest.  Home,"  I  said, 
"  that  he  is  rude.     You  are  rude  now,  Charley." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Home,"  exclaimed  Charley  at  once. 

"Oh,  never  mind!"  returned  Home  with  gloomy  good- 
nature. 

"  You  ought  to  make  allowance,  Charley,'*  I  pursued. 
"  When  a  man  has  been  accustomed  all  his  life  to  hear  things 
spoken  of  in  a  certain  way,  he  cannot  help  having  certain 
notions  to  start  with." 

"  If  I  thought  as  Osborne  does,"  said  Home,  "  I  would 
sooner  'list  than  go  into  the  church.'* 

"I  confess,"  I  rejoined,  "  I  do  not  see  how  any  one  can  take 
orders,  except  he  not  only  loves  God  with  all  his  heart,  but 
receives  the  story  of  the  New  Testament  as  a  revelation  of 
Him,  precious  beyond  utterance.  To  the  man  who  accepts  it 
so,  the  calling  is  the  noblest  in  the  world." 

The  others  were  silent,  and  the  conversation  turned  away. 
From  whatever  cause,  Home  did  not  go  into  the  church,  but 
died  fis^htino-  in  India. 

He  soon  left  us — Charley  remaining  behind. 

"  What  a  hypocrite  I  am !"  he  exclaimed  ; — "  following  a 
profession  in  which  I  must  often,  if  I  have  any  practice  at  all, 
defend  what  I  know  to  be  wrong,  and  seek  to  turn  justice  from 
its  natural  course." 


238  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"But  you  can't  always  know  that  your  judgment  is  right, 
even  if  it  should  be  against  your  client.     I  heard  an  eminent 
barrister  say  once,  that  he  had  come  out  of  the  court  con- 
vinced by  the  arguments  of  the  opposite  counsel." 
.  "  And  having  gained  the  case?" 

"  That  I  don't  know." 

*'  He  went  in  believing  his  own  side,  any  how,  and  that 
made  it  all  right  for  him." 

"  I  don't  know^  that,  either.  His  private  judgment  was 
altered,  but  whether  it  was  for  or  against  his  client,  I  do  not 
remember.  The  fact  however  shows  that  one  might  do  a  great 
wrong  by  refusing  a  client  whom  he  judged  in  the  wrong." 

"  On  the  contrary,  to  refuse  a  brief  on  such  grounds  would 
be  best  for  all  concerned.  Not  believing  in  it,  you  could  not 
do  your  best,  and  might  be  preventing  one  who  would  believe 
in  it  from  taking  it  up." 

"  The  man  might  not  get  anybody  to  take  it  up." 

"  Then  there  would  be  little  reason  to  expect  that  a  jury 
charged  under  ordinary  circumstances  would  give  a  verdict  in 
his  favor." 

"  But  it  would  be  for  the  barristers  to  constitute  themselves 
the  judges." 

"Yes — of  their  own  conduct — only  that.  There  I  am 
again  !  The  finest  ideas  about  the  right  thing,  and  going  on 
all  the  same,  with  open  eyes  running  my  head  straight  into 
the  uoose !  Wilfrid,  I'm  one  of  the  weakest  animals  in  crea- 
tion. What  if  you  found  at  last  that  I  had  been  deceiving 
yoiif    What  would  you  say?" 

"  Nothing,  Charley — to  any  one  else." 

"  What  would  you  say  to  yourself,  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  know  what  I  should  do." 

"What?" 

"Try  to  account  for  it,  and  find  as  many  reasons  as  I  could 
to  justify  you.  That  is,  I  would  do  just  as  you  do  for  every 
one  but  yourself." 

He  was  silent — plainly  from  emotion,  which  I  attributed  to 
his  pleasure  at  the  assurance  of  the  strength  of  my  friendship. 


IN   LONDON.  239 

"  Suppose  you  could  find  none  ?"  ho  said,  recovering  him- 
self a  little. 

"  I  should  still  believe  there  were  such.  Tout  comprendre 
c^est  tout  par donner,  you  know." 

He  brightened  at  this. 

"  You  are  a  friend,  Wilfrid !  What  a  strange  condition 
mine  is ! — forever  feeling  I  could  do  this  and  that  difficult 
thing,  were  it  to  fall  m  my  way,  and  yet  constantly  failing  in 
the  simplest  duties— even  to  that  of  common  politeness.  I 
behaved  like  a  brute  to  Home.  He's  a  fine  fellow,  and  only 
wants  to  see  a  thing  to  do  it.  /see  it  well  enough,  and  don't 
do  it.  Wilfrid,  I  shall  come  to  a  bad  end.  When  it  comes, 
mind  I  told  you  so,  and  blame  nobody  but  myself.  I  mean 
what  I  say." 

"Nonsense,  Charley!  It's  only  that  you  haven't  active 
work  enough,  and  get  morbid  with  brooding  over  the  germs 
of  things." 

"O  Wilfrid,  how  beautiful  a  life  might  be!  Just  look  at 
that  one  in  the  New  Testament !  Why  shouldn't  I  be  like 
that  ?  I  don't  know  why.  I  feel  as  if  I  could.  But  I'm 
not,  as  you  see — and  never  shall  be.  I'm  selfish,  and  ill-tem- 
pered, and " 

"  Charley !  Charley !  There  never  was  a  less  selfish  or 
better- tempered  fellow  in  the  world." 

"  Don't  make  me  believe  that,  Wilfrid,  or  I  shall  hate  the 
world  as  well  as  myself.  It's  all  my  hypocrisy  makes  you 
think  so.  Because  I  am  ashamed  of  what  I  am,  and  manage 
to  hide  it  pretty  well,  you  think  me  a  saint.  That  is  heaping 
damnation  on  me." 

"Take  a  pipe,  Charley,  and  shut  up.  That's  rubbish!"  I 
said.  I  doubt  much  if  it  was  what  I  ought  to  have  said,  but 
I  was  alarmed  for  the  consequences  of  such  brooding,  "  I 
wonder  what  the  world  would  be  like  if  every  one  considered 
himself  acting  up  to  his  own  idea !" 

"  If  he  was  acting  so,  then  it  would  do  the  world  no  harm 
that  he  knew  it." 

"  But  his  ideal  must  then  be  a  low  one,  and  that  would   do 


240  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

himself  and  everybody  the  worst  kind  of  harm.     The  greatest 
men  have  always  thought  the  least  of  themselves." 

"  Yes,  but  that  was  because  they  were  the  greatest.  A  man 
may  think  little  of  himself  just  for  the  reason  that  he  is  little, 
and  can't  help  knowing  it." 

"  Then  it's  a  mercy  he  does  know  it !  for  most  small  people 
think  much  of  themselves." 

"  But  to  know  it — and  to  feel  all  the  time  you  ought  to  be 
and  could  be  something  very  different,  and  yet  never  get  a 
step  nearer  it !  That  is  to  be  miserable.  Still  it  is  a  mercy  to 
Know  it.     There  is  always  a  last  help." 

I  mistook  what  he  meant,  and  thought  it  well  to  say  no 
more.  After  smoking  a  pipe  or  two  he  was  quieter,  and  left 
me  with  a  merry  remark. 

One  lovely  evening  in  spring,  I  looked  from  my  bed-room 
window,  and  saw  the  red  sunset  burning  in  the  thin  branches 
of  the  solitary  poplar  that  graced  the  fcAV  feet  of  garden 
behind  the  house.  It  drew  me  out  to  the  park,  where  the 
trees  were  all  in  young  leaf,  each  with  its  shadow  stretching 
away  from  its  foot,  like  its  longing  to  reach  its  kind  across 
dividing  space.  The  grass  was  like  my  own  grass  at  home, 
and  I  went  wandering  over  it  in  all  the  joy  of  the  new  spring, 
which  comes  every  year  to  our  hearts  as  well  as  to  their  pic- 
ture outside.  The  workmen  were  at  that  time  busy  about  the 
unfinished  botanical  gardens,  and  I  wandered  thitherward 
lingering  about,  and  pondering  and  inventing,  until  the  sun 
was  long  W'ithdraw^n,  and  the  shades  of  night  had  grown  very 
brown.  I  was  at  length  sauntering  slowly  home  to  put  a  few 
finishing  touches  to  a  paper  I  had  been  at  work  upon  all  day, 
when  something  about  a  young  couple  in  front  of  me  attracted 
my  attention.  They  were  walking  arm  in  arm,  talking 
eagerly,  but  so  low  that  I  heard  only  a  murmur.  I  did  not 
quicken  my  pace,  yet  was  gradnally  gaining  upon  them,  when 
suddenly  the  conviction  started  up  in  my  mind  that  the  gentle- 
man was  Charley.  I  could  not  mistake  his  back,  or  the  stoop 
of  his  shoulders  as  he  bent  towards  his  companion.  I  was  so 
certain  of  him  that  I  turned  at  once  from  the  road,  and  wan- 


IN   LONDON.  •  241 

dered  away  across  the  grass :  if  he  did  not  choose  to  tell  me 
about  the  lady,  I  had  uo  right  to  kuow.  But  I  confess  to  a 
strange  trouble  that  he  had  left  me  out.  I  comforted  myself 
however  with  the  thought  that  perhaps  when  we  next  met  he 
would  explain,  or  at  least  break,  the  silence. 

After  about  an  hour,  he  entered  in  an  excited  mood,  merry 
but  uncomfortable.  I  tried  to  behave  as  if  I  knew  nothing, 
but  could  not  help  feeling  much  disappointed  when  he  left  me 
without  a  word  of  his  having  had  a  second  reason  for  being 
in  the  neighborhood. 

What  effect  the  occurrence  might  have  had,  whether  the 
cobweb  veil  of  which  I  was  now  aware  between  us  would  have 
thickened  to  opacity  or  not,  I  cannot  tell.  I  dare  not  imagine 
that  it  might.  I  rather  hope  that  by  degrees  my  love  would 
have  got  the  victory,  and  melted  it  away.  But  now  came  a 
cloud  which  swallowed  every  other  in  my  firmament.  The  next 
morning  brought  a  letter  from  my  aunt,  telling  me  that  my 
uncle  had  had  a  stroke,  as  she  called  it,  and  at  that  moment 
was  lying  insensible.  I  put  my  affairs  in  order  at  once, 
and  Charley  saw  me  away  by  the  afternoon  coach. 

It  was  a  dreary  journey.  I  loved  my  uncle  with  perfect 
confidence  and  profound  veneration,  a  result  of  the  faithful 
and  open  simplicity  with  which  he  had  always  behaved 
towards  me.  If  he  were  taken  away,  and  already  he  might 
be  gone,  I  should  be  lonely  indeed,  for  on  whom  besides  could 
I  depend  with  anything  like  the  trust  which  I  had  reposed  in 
him  ?  For,  conceitedly  or  not,  I  had  always  felt  that  Charley 
rather  depended  on  me — that  I  had  rather  to  take  care  of 
him,  than  to  look  for  counsel  from  him. 

The  weary  miles  rolled  away.  Early  in  the  morning  we 
reached  Minstercombe.  There  I  got  a  carriage,  and  at  once 
continued  my  journey. 


16 


242  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CHANGES. 

I  MET  no  one  at  the  house-door,  or  in  the  kitchen,  and 
walked  straight  up  the  stair  to  my  uncle's  room.  The  blinds 
were  down,  and  the  curtains  were  drawn,  and  I  could  but  just 
see  the  figure  of  my  aunt  seated  beside  the  bed.  She  rose, 
and  without  a  v;ord  of  greeting,  made  way  for  me  to  approach 
the  form  which  lay  upon  it,  stretched  out  straight  and  motion- 
less. The  conviction  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  death 
seized  me ;  but  instead  of  the  wretchedness  of  heart  and  soul 
which  I  had  expected  to  follow  the  loss  of  my  uncle,  a  some- 
thing deeper  than  any  will  of  my  own  asserted  itself,  and  as  it 
were  took  the  matter  from  me.  It  was  as  if  my  soul  avoided 
the  sorrow  of  separation  by  breaking  with  the  world  of  mate- 
rial things,  asserting  the  shadowy  nature  of  all  the  visible, 
and  choosing  its  part  with  the  something  which  had  passed 
away.  It  was  as  if  my  deeper  self  said  to  my  outer  conscious- 
ness :  "  I  too  am  of  the  dead — one  with  them,  whether  they 
live  or  are  no  more.  For  a  little  while  I  am  shut  out  from 
them,  and  surrounded  with  things  that  seem  :  let  me  gaze  on 
the  picture  while  it  lasts  ;  dream  or  no  dream,  let  me  live  in 
it  according  to  its  laws,  and  await  what  will  come  next ;  if  an 
awaking,  it  is  well ;  if  only  a  perfect  because  dreamless  sleep, 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  lament  the  endless  separation — but 
while  I  know  myself,  I  will  hope  for  something  better."  Like 
:'ixis  at  least  was  the  blossom  into  which,  under  my  after  brood- 
ing, the  bud  of  that  feeling  broke. 

I  laid  my  hand  upon  my  uncle's  forehead.  It  was  icy  cold, 
just  like  my  grannie's  when  my  aunt  had  made  me  touch  it. 
And  I  knew  that  my  uncle  was  gone,  that  the  slow  tide  of  the 
eternal  ocean  had  risen  while  he  lay  motionless  within  the 
wash    of  its  waves,  and    had    floated    him    away  from    the 


CHANGES.  243 

shore  of  our  world.     I  took  the  hand  of  my  aunt,  who  stood 
like  a  statue  behind  me,  and  led  her  from  the  room. 

"  He  is  gone,  aunt,"  I  said,  as  calmly  as  I  could. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  gently  withdrew  her  hand  from  mine, 
and  returned  into  the  chamber.  I  stood  a  few  moments 
irresolute,  but  reverence  for  her  sorrow  prevailed,  and  I  went 
down  the  stair,  and  seated  myself  by  the  fire.  There  the  ser- 
vant told  me  that  my  uncle  had  never  moved  since  they  laid 
him  in  his  bed.  Soon  after,  the  doctor  arrived,  and  went  up 
stairs ;  but  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  only  to  affirm  the  fact. 
I  went  again  to  the  room,  and  found  my  aunt  lying  with  her 
face  on  the  bosom  of  the  dead  man.  She  allowed  me  to  draw 
her  away,  but  when  I  would  have  led  her  down,  she  turned 
aside,  and  sought  her  own  chamber,  where  she  remained  for 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

I  will  not  linger  over  that  miserable  time.  Greatly  as  I 
revered  my  uncle,  I  was  not  prepared  to  find  how  nmch  he 
had  been  respected,  and  was  astonished  at  the  number  of 
faces  I  had  never  seen  which  followed  to  the  church-yard. 
Amongst  them  were  the  Coninghams,  father  and  son ;  but 
except  by  a  friendly  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  a  few  words  of 
condolence,  neither  interrupted  the  calm  depression  rather 
than  grief  in  which  I  found  myself  When  I  returned  home, 
there  was  with  my  aunt  a  married  sister,  whom  I  had  never 
seen  before.  Up  to  this  time,  she  had  shown  an  arid  despair, 
and  been  regardless  of  everything  about  her ;  but  now  she  was 
in  tears.  I  left  them  together,  and  wandered  for  hoars  up  and 
down  the  lonely  playground  of  my  childhood,  thinking  of 
many  things — most  of  all,  how  strange  it  was  that,  if  there 
were  a  hereafter  for  us,  we  should  know  positively  nothing 
concerning  it ;  that  not  a  whisper  should  cross  the  invisible 
line ;  that  the  something  which  had  looked  from  its  windows  so 
lovingly,  should  have  in  a  moment  withdrawn,  by  some  back 
way  unknown  either  to  itself  or  us,  into  a  region  of  which  all 
we  can  tell  is  that  thence  no  prayers  and  no  tears  will  entice 
it,  to  lift  for  an  instant  a^ain  the  fallen  curtain,  and  look  out 
once  more.     Why  should  not  God,  I  thought,  if  a  God  there 


244  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

be,  permit  one  single  return  to  each,  that  so  the  friends  left 
behind  in  the  dark  might  be  sure  that  death  was  not  the  end, 
and  so  live  in  the  world  as  not  of  the  world  ? 

When  I  re-entered,  I  found  my  aunt  looking  a  little  cheer- 
ful. Slie  was  even  having  something  to  eat  with  her  sister — 
an  elderly  country-looking  woman,  the  wife  of  a  farmer  in  a 
distant  shire.  Their  talk  had  led  them  back  to  old  times,  to 
their  parents  and  the  friends  of  their  childhood ;  and  the 
memory  of  the  long  dead  had  comforted  her  a  little  over  the 
recent  loss;  for  all  true  hearts  death  is  a  uniting,  not  a 
dividing  power. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  be  going  back  to  London,  Wilfrid  ?" 
said  my  aunt,  who  had  already  been  persuaded  to  pay  her 
sister  a  visit. 

"I  think  I  had  better,"  I  answered.  "When  I  have  a 
chance  of  publishing  a  book,  I  should  like  to  come  and  write 
it,  or  at  least  finish  it  here,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"The  place  is  your  own,  Wilfrid.  Of  course  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  have  you  here." 

"  The  place  is  yours  as  much  as  mine,  aunt,"  I  replied.  "  I 
can't  bear  to  think  that  my  uncle  has  no  right  over  it  still. 
I  believe  he  has,  and  therefore  it  is  yours  just  the  same — not 
to  mention  my  own  wishes  in  the  matter." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  I  saw  that  both  she  and  her  sister 
were  shocked  either  at  my  mentioning  the  dead  man,  or  at  my 
supposing  he  had  any  earthly  rights  left.  The  next  day  they 
set  out  together,  leaving  in  the  house  the  wife  of  the  head  man 
at  the  farm  to  attend  to  me  until  I  should  return  to  town.  I 
had  purposed  to  set  out  the  following  morning,  but  I  found 
myself  enjoying  so  much  the  undisturbed  possession  of  the 
place,  that  I  remained  there  for  ten  days ;  and  when  I  went^ 
it  was  with  the  intention  of  making  it  my  home  as  soon  as  I 
might ;  I  had  grown  enamored  of  the  solitude  so  congenial  to 
labor.  Before  I  left  I  arranged  my  uncle's  papers,  and  in  doing 
so  found  several  early  sketches,  which  satisfied  me  that  he 
might  have  distinguished  himself  in  literature  if  his  fate  had 
led  him  thitherward. 


CHANGES.  245 

Having  given  tlie  house  in  charge  to  my  aunt's  deputy,  Mrs. 
Herbert,  I  at  length  returned  to  my  lodging  in  Camden  Town. 
There  I  found  two  letters  waiting  me,  the  one  announcing  the 
serious  illness  of  my  aunt,  the  other  her  death.  The  latter  was 
two  days  old.  I  WTote  to  express  my  sorrow,  and  excuse  my 
apparent  neglect,  and  having  made  a  long  journey  to  see  her 
also  laid  in  the  earth,  I  returned  to  my  old  home  in  order  to 
make  fresh  arrangements. 


246  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

PROPOSALS. 

Mrs.  Herbert  attended  me  during  the  forenoon,  but  left 
me  after  my  early  dinner.  I  made  my  tea  for  myself,  and  a 
tankard  filled  from  a  barrel  of  ale  of  my  uncle's  brewing, 
with  a  piece  of  bread  and  cheese,  was  my  unvarying  supper. 
The  first  night  I  felt  very  lonely,  almost  indeed  w^hat  the 
Scotch  call  eerie.  The  place,  although  inseparably  interwoven 
■with  my  earliest  recollections,  drew  back  and  stood  apart  from 
me — a  thing  to  be  thought  about ;  and,  in  the  ancient  house, 
amidst  the  lonely  field,  I  felt  like  a  ghost  condemned  to  return 
and  live  the  vanished  time  over  again.  I  had  had  a  fire 
lighted  in  my  own  room  ;  for,  although  the  air  was  warm  out- 
side, the  thick  stone  walls  seemed  to  retain  the  chilly  breath 
of  last  winter.  The  silent  rooms  that  filled  the  house  forced 
the  sense  of  their  presence  upon  me.  I  seemed  to  see  the 
forsaken  things  in  them  staring  at  each  other,  hopeless  and 
useless,  across  the  dividing  space,  as  if  saying  to  themselves, 
"  We^lelong  to  the  dead,  are  mouldering  to  the  dust  after 
them,  and  in  the  dust  alone  we  meet."  From  the  vacant 
rooms  my  soul  seemed  to  float  out  beyond,  searching  still — to 
find  nothing  but  loneliness  and  emptiness  betwixt  me  and  the 
star§ ;  and  beyond  the  stars  more  loneliness  and  more  empti- 
ness still — no  rest  for  the  sole  of  the  foot  of  the  wandering 
Psyche — save — one  mighty  saving — an  exception  which  if 
true  must  be  the  one  all-absorbing  rule.  "  But,"  I  was  saying 
to  mj  self,  "  love  unknown  is  not  even  equal  to  love  lost,"  w^hen 
my  revery  was  broken  by  the  dull  noise  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
upon  the  sward.  I  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  As  I  crossed 
the  room,  my  brain  rather  than  myself  suddenly  recalled  the 
night  when  my  pendulum  drew  from  the  churning  trees  the 
unwelcome  genius  of  the  storm.     The  moment  I  reached  the 


PROPOSALS.  247 

window — there  through  the  dim  summer  twilight,  once  more 
from  the  trees,  now  as  still  as  sleep,  came  the  same  figure. 

Mr.  Coningham  saw  me  at  the  fire-lighted  window,  and 
halted. 

"  May  I  be  admitted  ? "  he  asked,  ceremoniously. 

I  made  a  sign  to  him  to  ride  round  to  the  door,  for  I  could  not 
speak  aloud :  it  would  have  been  rude  to  the  memories  that 
haunted  the  silent  house. 

"  May  I  come  in  for  a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?"  he 
asked  again,  already  at  the  door  by  the  time  I  had  opened  it. 

"  By  all  means,  Mr.  Coningham,"  I  replied.  "Only  you  must 
tie  your  horse  to  this  ring  for  we — I — have  no  stable  here." 

"  I've  done  this  before,"  he  answered,  as  he  made  the  animal 
fast.  "  I  know  the  ways  of  the  place  well  enough.  But 
surely  you're  not  here  in  absolute  solitude." 

"  Yes,  I  am.     I  prefer  being  alone  at  present." 

"  Very  unhealthy,  I  must  say  !  You  will  grow  hypochon- 
driacal if  you  mope  in  this  fashion,"  he  returned,  following 
me  up  the  stairs  to  my  room. 

"  A  day  or  two  of  solitude  now  and  then  w^ould,  I  suspect, 
do  most  people  more  good  than  harm,"  I  answered.  "  But 
you  must  not  think  I  intend  leading  a  hermit's  life.  Have 
you  heard  that  my  aunt ?" 

"  Yes,  yes. — You  are  left  alone  in  the  world.  But  relations 
are  not  a  man's  only  friends — and  certainly  not  always  his 
best  friends." 

I  made  no  reply,  thinking  of  my  uncle. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  do\\Ti,"  he  resumed.  "  I  was 
calling  at  my  father's  and  seeing  your  light  across  the  park, 
thought  it  possible  you  might  be  here,  and  rode  over  to  see. — 
May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  what  your  plans  are  ?"  he 
added,  seating  himself  by  the  fire. 

"  I  have  hardly  had  time  to  form  new  ones  ;  but  I  mean  to 
stick  to  my  work,  anyhow." 

"  You  mean  your  profession  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  wdll  allow  me  to  call  it  such.  I  have  had  suc- 
cess enough  already  to  justify  me  in  going  on." 


248  WILFKID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  am  more  pleased  than  surprbed  to  hear  it,"  he  answered, 
*'  But  what  will  you  do  with  the  old  nest  ?" 

"  Let  the  old  nest  wait  for  the  old  bird,  Mr.  Conmgham — 
keep  it  to  die  in." 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  a  young  fellow  talking  that  way,"  he 
remonstrated.  "  You've  got  a  long  life  to  live  yet — at  least  I 
hope  so.  But  if  you  leave  the  house  untenanted  till  the  period 
to  which  you  allude,  it  will  be  quite  unfit  by  that  time  even 
for  the  small  service  you  propose  to  require  of  it.  Why  not 
let  it — for  a  term  of  years?  I  could  find  you  a  tenant,  I  make 
no  doubt." 

"  I  won't  let  it.  I  shall  meet  the  world  all  the  better  if  I 
have  a  place  of  my  ow^n  to  take  refuge  in." 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  but  there's  good  in  that  fancy.  To  have 
any  spot  of  your  own,  however  small  — freehold,  I  mean — must 
be  a  comfort.  At  the  same  time,  what's  the  world  for,  if  you're 
to  meet  it  in  that  half-hearted  way  ?  I  don't  mean  that  every 
young  man — there  are  exceptions — must  sow  just  so  many 
bushels  of  avenafatua.  There  are  plenty  of  enjoyments  to  be 
got  w  ithout  leading  a  wild  life — which  I  should  be  the  last  to 
recommend  to  any  young  man  of  principle.  Take  my  advice 
and  let  the  place.  But  pray  don't  do  me  the  injustice  to 
fancy  I  came  to  look  after  a  job.  I  shall  be  most  happy  to 
serve  you." 

"  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you,"  I  answered.  "  If  you 
could  let  the  farm  for  me  for  the  rest  of  the  lease,  of  which 
there  are  but  a  few  years  to  run,  that  would  be  of  great  conse- 
quence to  me.  Herbert,  my  uncle's  foreman,  who  has  the 
management  now,  is  a  very  good  fellow,  but  I  doubt  if  he  will 
do  more  than  make  both  ends  meet  without  my  aunt,  and  the 
accounts  would  bother  me  endlessly." 

"  I  shall  find  out  whether  Lord  Inglewold  be  inclined  to  re- 
sume the  fag-end.  In  such  case,  as  the  lease  has  been  a  long 
one,  and  land  has  risen  much,  he  would  doubtless  pay  a  part 
of  the  difference.  Then  there's  the  stock — worth  a  good  deal, 
I  should  think.  I'll  see  what  can  be  done.  And  then  there's 
the  stray  bit  of  park?" 


PROPOSALS.  249 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  I  asked.  "  We  have  been 
in  the  way  of  calling  it  the  park,  though  why,  I  never  could 
tell.  I  confess  it  does  look  like  a  bit  of  Sir  Giles's  that  had 
wandered  beyond  the  gates." 

"There  is  some  old  story  or  other  about  it,  I  believe.  The 
possessors  of  the  Moldwarp  estate  have,  from  time  immemorial, 
regarded  it  as  properly  theirs.     I  know  that." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  them,  certainly,  /have  been  in  the 
habit  of  thinking  differently." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  rejoined,  laughing.  "  But  there 
may  have  been  some — mistake  somewhere.  I  know  Sir  Giles 
would  give  five  times  its  value  for  it." 

"  He  should  not  have  it  if  he  ofiered  the  Moldwarp  estate 
in  exchange,"  I  cried  indignantly;  and  the  thought  flashed 
across  me  that  this  temptation  was  what  my  uncle  had  feared 
from  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Coningham. 

"Your  sincerity  will  not  be  put  to  so  great  a  test  as  that," 
he  returned,  laughing  quite  merrily.  "  But  I  am  glad  you  have 
such  a  respect  for  real  property.  At  the  same  time — ^how  many 
acres  are  there  of  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered  curtly  and  truly. 

"  It's  of  no  consequence.  Only  if  you  don't  want  to  be 
tempted,  don't  let  Sir  Giles  or  my  father  broach  the  subject. 
You  needn't  look  at  me.  /  am  not  Sir  Giles's  agent.  Neither 
do  my  father  and  I  run  in  double  harness.  He  hinted,  how- 
ever, this  very  day,  that  he  believed  the  old  fool  wouldn't  stick 
at  £500  an  acre  for  this  bit  of  grass — if  he  couldn't  get  it  for 
less." 

"  If  that  is  what  you  have  come  about,  Mr.  Coningham,"  I 
rejoined,  haughtily  I  dare  say,  for  something  I  could  not  well 
define  made  me  feel  as  if  the  dignity  of  a  thousand  ancestors 
were  periled  in  my  own,  "I  beg  you  will  not  say  another  word 
on  the  subject,  for  sell  this  land  I  loill  not." 

He  was  looking  at  me  strangely :  his  eye  glittered  with  what, 
under  other  circumstances,  I  might  have  taken  for  satisfaction; 
but  he  turned  his  face  away  and  rose,  saying,  with  a  curiously 
altered  tone,  as  he  took  up  his  hat: 


250  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  have  offended  you,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  I 
siucerely  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  our  old — friendship  may 
I  not  call  it? — would  have  juistified  me  in  merely  reporting 
what  1  had  heard.  I  see  now  that  I  wan  wrong.  I  ought  to 
have  shown  more  regard  for  your  feelings  at  this  trying  time. 
But  again  I  assure  you  I  was  only  reporting,  and  had  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  making  myself  a  go-between  in  the  mat- 
ter. One  w  ord  more :  1  have  no  doubt  I  could  let  the  field  for 
you — at  good  grazing  rental  That  I  think  you  could  hardly 
object  to." 

"  I  should  be  much  obliged  to  you,"  I  replied — "  for  a  term 
of  not  more  than  seven  years — but  without  the  house,  and  with 
the  stipulation  expressly  made  that  I  have  right  of  way  in  every 
dii'ection  through  it." 

"Reasonable  enough,"  he  answered. 

"  One  thing  more,"  I  said,  "  all  these  affairs  must  be  pure 
matters  of  business  between  us." 

"  As  you  please,"  he  returned,  with,  I  fancied,  a  shadow  of 
disappointment  if  not  of  displeasure  on  his  countenance.  "  I 
should  have  been  more  gratified  if  you  had  accepted  a  friendly 
oflice;  but  I  will  do  my  best  for  you,  notwithstanding." 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  being  unfriendly,  Mr.  Coningham," 
I  said.  "  But  when  I  think  of  it,  I  fear  I  may  have  been  rude, 
for  the  bare  proposal  of  selling  this  Naboth's  vineyard  of  mine 
would  go  far  to  make  me  rude  to  any  man  alive.  It  sounds 
like  an  invitation  to  dishonor  myself  in  the  eyes  of  my  ancestors." 

"Ah!  you  do  care  about  your  ancestors?"  he  said,  half  mu- 
singly, and  looking  into  his  hat. 

"  Of  course  I  do !     Who  is  there  does  not  ?" 

"Only  some  ninety-nine  hundredth  of  the  English  nation." 

"  I  cannot  well  forget,"  I  returned,  "  what  my  ancestors  have 
done  for  me." 

"  Whereas  most  people  only  remember  that  theii'  ancestors 
can  do  no  more  for  them.  I  declare  I  am  almost  glad  I 
offended  you.  It  does  one  good  to  hear  a  young  man  speak 
like  that  in  these  degenerate  days,  when  a  buck  would  rather 
be  the  son  of  a  rich  brewer  than  a  decayed  gentleman.     I  will 


PROPOSALS.  251 

call  again  about  the  end  of  the  week — that  is  if  you  will  be 
here — and  report  progress." 

His  manner,  as  he  took  his  leave,  was  at  once  more  friendly 
and  more  respectful  than  it  had  yet  been — a  change  which  I 
attributed  to  his  having  discovered  in  me  more  firmness  than 
he  had  expected,  in  regard,  if  not  of  my  rights,  at  least  of  my 
social  position. 


252  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

ARRANGEMENTS. 

My  custom  at  this  time,  aud  for  long  after  I  had  finally 
settled  down  in  the  country,  was  to  rise  early  in  the  morning— 
often,  as  I  used  when  a  child,  before  sunrise,  in  order  to  see  the 
first  burst  of  the  sun  upon  the  new-born  world.     I  believed 
then,  as  I  believe  still,  that,  lovely  as  the  sunset  is,  the  sunrise 
is  more  full  of  mystery,  poetry,  and  even,  I  had  almost  said, 
pathos.     But  often  ere  he  was  well  up  I  had  begun  to  imagine 
what  the  evening  would  be  like,  and  with  what  softly  mingled, 
all   but  imperceptible  gradations  it  would  steal   into   night. 
Then  when  the  night  came,  I  would  wander  about  my  little 
field,  vainly  endeavoring  to  picture  the  glory  with  which  the 
next  day's  sun  would  rise  upon  me.     Hence  the  morning  and 
evening  became  well  known  to  me;  and  yet  I  shrink  from  say- 
ing it,  for  each  is  endless  in  the  variety  of  its  change.  And  the 
longer  I  was  alone,  I  became  the  more  enamored  of  solitude, 
with  the  labor  to  which,  in  my  case,  it  was  so  helpful ;  and  be- 
gan indeed  to  be  in  some  danger  of  losing  sight  of  my  relation 
to  "  a  world  of  men,"  for  with  that  world  my  imagination  and 
my  love  for  Charley  were  now  my  sole  recognizable  links. 

In  the  fore-part  of  the  day,  I  read  and  wrote ;  and  in  the 
after-part  found  both  employment  and  pleasure  in  arranging 
my  uncle's  books,  amongst  which  I  came  upon  a  good  many 
treasures  whereof  I  was  now  able  in  some  measure  to  appreci- 
ate the  value — thinking  often,  amidst  their  ancient  dust  and 
odoi*s,  with  something  like  indignant  pity,  of  the  splendid  col- 
lection, as  I  was  sure  it  must  be,  mouldering  away  in  utter 
neglect  at  the  neighboring  Hall. 

I  was  on  my  knees  in  the  midst  of  a  pile  w^hich  I  had  drawn 
from  a  cupboard  under  the  shelves,  w^hen  Mrs.  Herbert  showed 
Mr.  Coningham  in.     I  was  annoyed,  for  my  uncle's  room  was 


ARRANGEMENTS.  253 

sacred ;  but  as  I  was  about  to  take  him  to  my  own,  I  saw  such 
a  look  of  interest  upon  his  face  that  it  turned  me  aside,  and  I 
asked  him  to  take  a  seat. 

"  If  you  do  not  mind  the  dust,"  I  added. 
"  Mind  the  dust  I"  he  exclaimed, — "  of  old  books !     I  count 
it  almost  sacred.     I  am  glad  you  know  how  to  value  them." 

What  right  had  he  to  be  glad  ?  How  did  he  know  I  valued 
them  ?  How  could  I  but  value  them  ?  I  rebuked  my  offence, 
however,  and  after  a  little  talk  about  them,  in  which  he  revealed 
much  more  knowledge  than  I  should  have  expected,  it  vanished. 
He  then  informed  me  of  an  arrangement  he  and  Lord  Ingle- 
wold's  factor  had  been  talking  over  in  respect  of  the  farm ; 
also  of  an  offer  he  had  had  for  my  field.  I  considered  both 
sufficiently  advantageous  in  my  circumstances,  and  the  result 
was  that  I  closed  with  both. 

A  few  days  after  this  arrangement  I  returned  to  Loudon, 
intending  to  remain  for  some  time.     I  had  a  warm  welcome 
from  Charley,  but  could  not  help  fancying  an  unacknowledged 
something  dividing  us.     He  appeared,  notwithstanding,  less 
oppressed,  and,  in  a  word,  more  like  other  people.  I  proceeded 
at  once  to  finish  two  or  three  papers  and  stories,  which  late 
events  had   interrupted.     But   within   a   week   London   had 
grown  to  me  stifling  and  unendurable,  and  I  longed  unspeak- 
ably for  the  free  air  of  my  field,  and  the  loneliness  of  my  small 
castle.     If  my  reader  regard  me  as  already  a  hypochondriac, 
the  sole  disproof  I  have  to  offer  is,  that  I  was  then  diligently 
writing  what  some  years  afterwards  obtained  a  hearty  reception 
from  the  better  class  of  the  reading  public.     Whether  my 
habits  were  healthy  or  not,  whether  my  love  of  solitude  was 
natural  or  not,  I  cannot  but  hope  from  this  that  my  modes  of 
thinking  were.     The  end  was,  that,  after  finishing  the  work  I 
had  on  hand,  I  collected  my  few  belongings,  gave  up  my  lodg- 
ing, bade  Charley  good-bye,  receiving  from  him   a  promise  to 
visit  me  at  my  own  house  if  possible,  and  took  my  farewell  of 
London  for  a  season,  determined  not  to  return  until  I  had  pro- 
duced a  work  which  my  now  more  enlarged  judgment  might 
consider  fit  to  see  the  light.   I  had  laid  out  all  my  spare  money 


254  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

upon  books,  with  which  in  a  few  heavy  trunks  I  now  went  back 
to  my  solitary  dwelling.  I  had  no  care  upon  my  mind,  for  my 
small  fortune  along  with  the  rent  of  my  field  was  more  than 
sufficient  for  my  maintenance  in  the  almost  anchoretic  seclu- 
sion in  which  I  intended  to  live,  and  hence  I  had  every  advan- 
tage for  the  more  definite  projection  and  prosecution  of  a  work 
which  had  been  gradually  shaping  itself  in  my  mind  for  months 
past. 

Before  leaving  for  London  I  had  already  spoken  to  a  handy 
lad  employed  upon  the  farm,  and  he  had  kept  himself  free  to 
enter  my  service  when  I  should  require  him.  He  was  the 
more  necessary  to  me  that  I  still  had  my  mare  Lilith,  from 
which  nothing  but  fate  should  ever  part  me.  I  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  arranging  with  the  new  tenant  for  her  continued  ac- 
commodation at  the  farm ;  while,  as  Herbert  still  managed  its 
affairs,  the  services  of  his  wife  were  available  as  often  as  I 
required  them.  But  my  man  soon  made  himself  capable  of 
doing  everything  for  me,  and  proved  himself  perfectly  trust- 
worthy. 

I  must  find  a  name  for  my  place — for  its  own  I  will  not 
write :  let  me  call  it  The  Moat ;  there  were  signs,  plain  enough 
to  me  after  my  return  from  Oxford,  that  there  had  once  been 
a  moat  about  it,  of  which  the  hollow  I  have  mentioned  as  the 
spot  where  I  used  to  lie  and  watch  for  the  sun's  first  rays  had 
evidently  been  a  part.  But  the  remains  of  the  moat  lay  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  the  house,  suggesting  a  large  area 
of  building  at  some  former  period,  proof  of  which,  however, 
had  entirely  vanished,  the  house  bearing  every  sign  of  a  nar- 
row completeness. 

The  work  I  had  undertaken  required  a  constantly  recurring 
reference  to  books  of  the  sixteenth  century ;  and  although  I 
had  provided  as  many  as  I  thought  I  should  need,  I  soon 
found  them  insufficient.  My  uncle's  library  was  very  large 
for  a  man  in  his  position,  but  it  was  not  by  any  means  equally 
developed ;  and  my  necessities  made  me  think  often  of  the  old 
library  at  the  Hall,  which  might  contain  somewhere  in  its  ruins 
every  book  I  wanted.     Not  only,  however,  would  it  have  been 


ARRANGEMENTS.  255 

useless  to  go  searching  in  the  formless  mass  for  this  or  that 
volume,  but,  unable  to  grant  Sir  Giles  the  desire  of  his  heart 
in  respect  of  my  poor  field,  I  did  not  care  to  ask  of  him  the 
comparatively  small  favor  of  being  allowed  to  burrow  in  hiii 
dust-heap  of  literature. 

I  was  sitting,  one  hot  noon,  almost  in  despair  over  a  certain 
little  point  concerning  which  I  could  find  no  definite  informa- 
tion, when  Mr.  Coningham  called.  After  some  business  mat- 
ters had  been  discussed,  I  mentioned,  merely  for  the  sake  of 
talk,  the  difi&culty  I  was  in — the  sole  disadvantage  of  a  resi- 
dence in  the  country  as  compared  with  London,  where  the 
British  Museum  was  the  unfailing  resort  of  all  who  required 
such  aid  as  I  was  in  want  of. 

"  But  there  is  the  library  at  Moldwarp  Hall,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  there  it  is ;  but  there  is  not  here.^^ 

"  I  have  no  doubt  Sir  Giles  would  make  you  welcome  to 
borrow  what  books  you  wanted.  He  is  a  good-natured  man. 
Sir  Giles." 

I  explained  my  reason  for  not  troubling  him. 

"  Besides,"  I  added,  "  the  library  is  in  such  absolute  chaos, 
that  I  might  with  less  loss  of  time  run  up  to  London,  and  find 
any  volume  I  happened  to  want  among  the  old-book  shops. 
You  have  no  idea  what  a  mess  Sir  Giles's  books  are  in — 
scarcely  two  volumes  of  the  same  book  to  be  found  even  in 
proximity.     It  is  one  of  the  most  painful  sights  I  ever  saw." 

He  said  little  more,  but  from  what  followed,  I  suspect  either 
he  or  his  father  spoke  to  Sir  Giles  on  the  subject ;  for,  one 
day,  as  I  was  walking  past  the  park-gates,  which  I  had  sel- 
dom entered  since  my  return,  I  saw  him  just  within,  talking 
to  old  Mr.  Coningham.  I  saluted  him  in  passing,  and  he  not 
only  returned  the  salutation  in  a  friendly  manner,  but  made  a 
step  towards  me  as  if  he  wished  to  speak  to  me.  I  turned  and 
approached  him.     He  came  out  and  shook  hands  with  me. 

"I  know  who  you  are,  Mr.  Cumbermede,  although  I  have  never 
had  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  you  before,"  he  said  frankly. 

"There  you  are  mistaken.  Sir  Giles,"  I  returned ;  *'  but  you 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  remember  the  little  boy  who. 


256  WILFRID   CUMBt:RMEUE. 

many  years  ago,  havini^  stolen  one  of  your  apples,  came  to  you 
to  comfort  him."     He  laughed  heartily. 

"  I  remember  the  circumstances  well,"  he  said.  "  And  you 
were  that  unhappy  culprit  ?  Ha  I  ha !  ha!  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  have  thought  of  it  many  times.  It  was  a  remarkably  fine 
thing  to  do." 

"  What!  steal  the  apple.  Sir  Giles?" 

"  i\Iake  the  instant  reparation  you  did." 

"  There  was  no  reparation  in  asking  you  to  box  my  ears." 

"  It  was  all  you  could  do,  though." 

"  To  ease  my  own  conscience,  it  was.  There  is  always  a 
satisfaction,  I  suppose,  in  suffering  for  our  sins.  But  I  have 
thought  a  thousand  times  of  your  kindness  in  shaking  hands 
with  me  instead.  You  treated  me  as  the  angels  treat  the  re- 
pentant sinner.  Sir  Giles." 

"  Well,  I  certainly  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light,"  he 
said;  then,  as  if  wishing  to  change  the  subject, — "  Don't  you 
find  it  lonely  now  your  uncle  is  gone  ?"  lie  asked. 

"  I  miss  him  more  than  I  can  tell." 

"  A  very  worthy  man  he  was — too  good  for  this  world  by 
all  accounts." 

"  He's  not  the  worse  off  for  that  now,  Sir  Giles,  I  trust." 

"  No  ;  of  course  not,"  he  returned  quickly,  with  the  usual 
shrinking  from  the  slightest  allusion  to  what  is  called  the  other 
world. — "  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  You  are  a 
literary  man  they  tell  me.  There  are  a  good  many  books  of 
one  sort  and  another  lying  at  the  Hall.  Some  of  them  might 
be  of  use  to  you.  They  are  at  your  service.  I  am  sure  you 
are  to  be  trusted  even  with  m-ouldy  books,  which,  from  what 
I  hear,  must  be  a  greater  temptation  to  you  now  than  red- 
cheeked  apples,"  he  added,  with  another  merry  laugh. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what,  Sir  Giles,"  I  answered.  "  It  has 
often  grieved  me  to  think  of  the  state  of  your  library.  It  would 
be  scarcely  possible  for  me  to  find  a  book  in  it  now.  But  if 
you  would  trust  me,  I  should  be  delighted,  in  my  spare  hours, 
of  which  I  can  command  a  good  many,  to  put  the  whole  in 
order  for  you." 


ARRANGEMENTS.  257 

"  I  should  be  under  the  greatest  obligation.  I  have  always 
intended  having  some  capable  man  down  from  London  to  ar- 
range it.  I  am  no  great  reader  myself^  but  I  have  the  highest 
respect  for  a  good  library.  It  ought  never  to  have  got  into 
the  condition  in  which  I  found  it.'' 

"  The  books  are  fast  going  to  ruin,  I  fear." 

"  Are  they  indeed  ?"  he  exclaimed,  with  some  consternation. 
"  I  was  not  in  the  least  aware  of  that.  I  thought  so  long  as  I 
let  no  one  meddle  with  them,  they  were  safe  enough." 

"  The  law  of  the  moth  and  rust  holds  with  books  as  well  as 
other  unused  things,"  I  answered. 

*'  Then,  pray,  my  dear  sir,  undertake  the  thing  at  once,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  to  which  the  uneasioess  of  self-reproach  gave  a 
touch  of  imperiousness.  "  But  really,"  he  added,  "  it  seems 
trespassing  on  your  goodness  much  too  far.  Your  time  is 
valuable.     Would  it  be  a  long  job  ?" 

"  It  would  doubtless  take  some  months ;  but  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  order  drawn  from  confusion  would  itself  repay  me. 
And  I  miffht  come  upon  certain  books  of  which  I  am  greatly 
in  want.  You  will  have  to  allow  me  a  carpenter  though,  for 
the  shelves  are  not  half  sufficient  to  hold  the  books  ;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  those  there  are  stand  in  need  of  repair." 

"  I  have  a  carpenter  amongst  my  people.  Old  houses  want 
constant  attention.  I  shall  put  him  under  your  orders  with 
pleasure.  Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  and  we'll  talk 
it  all  over." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  I  said.  "Is  Mr.  Brotherton  at 
home?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  is  not." 

"  I  heard  the  other  day  that  he  had  sold  his  commission." 

"  Yes — six  months  ago.    His  regiment  was  ordered  to  India, 

and — and — his  mother. But  he  does  not  give  us  much  of 

his  company,"  added  the  old  man.     "  I  am  sorry  he  is  not  at 
home,  for  he  would  have  been  glad  to  meet  you." 

Instead  of  responding,  I  merely  made  haste  to  accept  Sir 
Giles's  invitation.     I  confess  I  did  not  altogether  relish  having 
anything  to  do  with   the  future  property  of  Geoffrey  Broth- 
17 


208  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

erton  ;  but  the  attraction  of  the  books  was  great,  and  in  any 
case  I  should  be  under  no  obligation  to  him  ;  neither  was  the 
nature  of  the  service  I  was  about  to  render  him  such  as  would 
awaken  any  sense  of  obligation  in  a  mind  like  his. 

I  could  not  help  recalling  the  sarcastic  criticisms  of  Clara 
when  I  entered  the  drawing-room  of  Moldwarp  Hall — a  long, 
low-ceiled  room,  with  its  walls  and  stools  and  chairs  covered 
with  tapestry,  some  of  it  the  work  of  the  needle,  other  some 
of  the  Gobelin  loom  ;  but  although  I  found  Lady  Brotherton 
a  common  enough  old  lady,  who  showed  little  of  the  dignity 
of  which  she  evidently  thought  much,  and  was  more  conde- 
scending to  her  yeoman  neighbor  than  was  agreeable,  I  did  not 
at  once  discover  ground  for  the  severity  cf  those  remarks. 
Miss  Brotherton,  the  eldest  of  the  family,  a  long-necked  lady, 
the  flower  of  whose  youth  was  beginning  to  curl  at  the  edges,  I 
found  well-read,  but  whether  in  books  or  the  reviews  of  them, 
I  had  to  leave  an  open  question  as  yet.     Nor  was  I  suffi- 
ciently taken  ^vith  her  not  to  feel  considerably  dismayed  when 
she  profiered  me  her  assistance  in  arranging  the  library.     I 
made  no  objection  at  the  time,  only  hinting  that  the  drawing 
up  of  a  catalogue  afterwards  might  be  a  fitter  employment  for 
her  fair  fingers  ;  but  I  resolved  to  create  such  a  fearful  pother 
at  the  very  beginning,  that  her  first  visit  should  be  her  last. 
And  so  I  doubt  not  it  would  have  fallen  out,  but  for  some- 
thing else.     The  only  other  person  who  dined  with  us  was  a 
Miss  Pease  — at  least  so  I  will  call  her — who,  although  the 
law  of  her  existence  appeared  to  be  fetching  and  carrying  for 
Lady  Brotherton,  was  yet,  in  virtue  of  a  poor  relationship, 
allowed  an  uneasy  seat  at  the  table.     Her  obedience  was  me- 
chanically perfect.     One  wondered  how  the  mere  nerves  of 
volition  could  act  so  instantaneously  upon  the  slightest  hint. 
I  saw  her  more  than  once  or  twice  withdraw  her  fork  when 
almost  at  her  lips,  and  almost  before  she  had  laid  it  down,  rise 
from  her  seat  to  obey  some  half-w^hispered,  half-nodded  behest. 
But  her  look  was  one  of  injured  meekness  and  self-humbled 
submission.     Sir  Giles  now  and    then  gave  her  a   kind  or 
merry  word,  but  she  would  reply  to  it  with  almost  abject  hu- 


ARRANGEMENTS.  259 

mility.  Her  face  was  gray  and  pinched,  her  eyes  were  very 
cold,  and  she  ate  as  if*  she  did  not  know  one  thing  from 
another. 

Over  our  wine  Sir  Giles  introduced  business.  I  professed 
myself  ready,  with  a  house-maid  and  carpenter  at  my  orders 
when  I  should  want  them,  to  commence  operations  the 
following  afternoon.  He  begged  me  to  ask  for  whatever  I 
might  want,  and  after  a  little  friendly  chat  I  took  my  leave, 
elated  with  the  prospect  of  the  work  before  me.  About  three 
o'clock  the  next  afternoon  I  took  my  way  to  the  Hall,  to 
assume  the  temporary  office  of  creative  librarian. 


260  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

PREPARATIONS. 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  the  air  hot,  and  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  dark  upon  the  green*  grass.  The  clear  sun  was 
shining  sideways  on  the  little  oriel  window  of  one  of  the  rooms 
in  which  my  labor  awaited  me.  Never  have  I  seen  a  picture 
of  more  stately  repose  than  the  huge  pile  of  building  presented, 
while  the  curious  vane  on  the  central  square  tower  glittered 
like  the  outburning  flame  of  its  hidden  life.  The  only  objec- 
tion I  could  find  to  it  was  that  it  stood  isolated  from  its  own 
park,  although  the  portion  next  it  was  kept  as  trim  as  the 
smoothest  lawn.  There  was  not  a  door  anywhere  to  be  seen, 
except  the  two  gateway  entrances,  and  not  a  window  upon  the 
ground  floor.  All  the  doors  and  low  windows  were  either  within 
the  courts,  or  opened  on  the  garden  which,  with  its  terraced 
walks  and  avenues,  and  one  tiny  lawn,  surrounded  the  two  fur- 
ther sides  of  the  house,  and  was  itself  enclosed  by  walls. 

I  knew  the  readiest  way  to  the  library  well  enough ;  once 
admitted  at  the  outer  gate,  I  had  no  occasion  to  trouble  the 
servants.  The  rooms  containing  the  books  were  amongst  the 
bedrooms,  and  after  crossing  the  great  hall,  I  had  to  turn  my 
back  on  the  stair  which  led  to  the  ball-room  and  drawing-room, 
and  ascend  another  to  the  left,  so  that  I  could  come  and  go 
with  little  chance  of  meeting  any  of  the  family. 

The  rooms,  I  have  said,  were  six,  none  of  them  of  any  great 
size,  and  all  ill-fitted  for  the  purpose.  In  fact,  there  was  such 
a  sense  of  confinement  about  the  whole  arrangement  as  gave 
me  the  feeling  that  any  difficult  book  read  there  would  be  un- 
intelligible. Order,  however,  is  only  another  kind  of  light,  and 
would  do  much  to  destroy  the  impression.  Having  with  prac- 
tical intent  surveyed  the  situation,  I  saw  there  was  no  space  for 
action.  I  must  have  at  least  the  temporary  use  of  another 
room.     Observing  that  the  last  of  the  suite  of  book  rooms 


PREPARATIONS.  261 

farthest  from  the  armory  had  still  a  door  into  the  room  be- 
yond, I  proceeded  to  try  it,  thinking  to  see  at  a  glance  whether 
it  would  suit  me,  and  whether  it  was  likely  to  be  yielded  for 
my  purpose.  It  opened,  and,  to  my  dismay,  there  stood  Clara 
Coningham,  fastening  her  collar.  She  looked  sharply  round, 
and  made  a  half-indignant  step  towards  me. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,  Miss  Coningham,"  I 
exclaimed.  "  Will  you  allow  me  to  explain,  or  must  I  retreat 
unheard?" 

I  was  vexed  indeed,  for,  notwithstanding  a  certain  flutter  at 
the  heart,  I  had  no  wish  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  her. 

"  There  must  be  some  fatality  about  the  place,  Mr.  Cumber- 
mede !"  she  said,  almost  with  her  old  merry  laugh.  "  It 
frightens  me." 

"  Precisely  my  owa  feeling.  Miss  Coningham.  I  had  no  idea 
you  were  in  the  neighborhood." 

"I  cannot  say  so  much  as  that;  for  I  had  heard  you  were 
at  The  Moat;  but  I  had  no  expectation  of  seeing  you — least 
of  all  in  this  house.  I  suppose  you  are  on  the  scent  of  some 
musty  old  book  or  other,"  she  added,  approaching  the  door 
where  I  stood  w^ith  the  handle  in  my  hand. 

"  My  object  is  an  invasion  rather  than  a  hunt,"  I  said,  draw- 
ing back  that  she  might  enter. 

"  Just  as  it  was  the  last  time  you  and  I  were  here !"  she  went 
on,  with  scarcely  a  pause,  and  as  easily  as  if  there  had  never 
been  any  misunderstanding  between  us. 

I  had  thought  myself  beyond  any  further  influence  from  her 
fascinations,  but  when  I  looked  in  her  beautiful  face,  and  heard 
her  allude  to  the  past  with  so  much  friendliness,  and  such  ap- 
parent unconsciousness  of  any  reason  for  forgetting  it,  a  tremor 
ran  through  me  from  head  to  foot.  I  mastered  myself  suffi- 
ciently to  reply,  however. 

"  It  is  the  last  time  you  will  see  it  so,"  I  said ; "  for  here  stands 
the  Hercules  of  the  stable — about  to  restore  it  to  cleanliness 
and,  what  is  of  far  more  consequence  in  a  library — to  order !" 

"  You  don't  mean  it !"  she  exclaimed  with  genuine  surprise. 
"I'm  so  glad  I'm  here!" 


2(32  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Are  you  on  a  visit,  then  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  am ;  though  how  it  came  about  I  don't  know.  I 
dare  say  my  father  does.  Lady  Brotherton  has  invited  me, 
stiffly,  of  course,  to  spend  a  few  weeks  during  their  stay.  Sir 
Giles  must  be  in  it;  I  believe  I  am  rather  a  favorite  with  the 
good  old  man.  But  I  have  another  fancy :  my  grandfather  is 
getting  old ;  I  suspect  my  father  has  been  making  himself  use- 
ful, and  this  invitation  is  an  acknowledgment.  Men  always 
buttress  their  ill-built  dignities  by  keeping  poor  women  in  the 
dark ;  by  which  means  you  drive  us  to  infinite  conjecture. 
That  is  how  we  come  to  be  so  much  cleverer  than  you  at  put- 
ting two  and  two  together  and  making  five." 

"But,"  I  ventured  to  remark,  "under  such  circumstances, 
you  will  hardly  enjoy  your  visit." 

"  Oh  I  shan't  I  ?  I  shall  get  fun  enough  out  of  it  for  that. 
They  are — all  but  Sir  Giles — they  are  great  fun.  Of  course, 
they  don't  treat  me  as  an  equal,  but  I  take  it  out  in  amuse- 
ment.    You  will  find  you  will  have  to  do  the  same." 

"  Not  I.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  I  am  here  as  a 
skilled  workman — one  whose  work  is  his  sufficient  reward. 
There  is  nothing  degrading  in  that — is  there?  If  I  thought 
there  was,  of  course  I  shouldn't  come." 

"  You  never  did  anything  you  felt  degrading  ?" 

"No." 

"  Happy  mortal !"  she  said  with  a  sigh— whether  humorous 
or  real,  I  could  not  tell. 

"  I  have  had  no  occasion,"  I  returned. 

"  And  yet,  as  I  hear,  you  have  made  your  mark  in  litera- 
ture?" . 

"  Who  says  that?     I  should  not." 

"  Never  mind,"  she  rejoined,  with,  as  I  fancied,  the  look  of 
having  said  more  than  she  ought.  "  But,"  she  added,  "  I  wish 
you  would  tell  me  in  what  periodicals  you  write." 

"You  must  excuse  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  first  kno"svn  in 
connection  with  fugitive  things.  "When  first  I  publish  a  book, 
you  may  be  assured  my  name  will  be  on  the  title-page.  Mean- 
time, I  must  fulfill  the  conditions  of  my  entree." 


TREPARATIONS. 


263 


"And  I  must  go  and  pay  my  respects  to  Lady  BrothertoiL 
I  have  ouly  just  arrived." 

"  Won't  you  find  it  dull  ?  There's  nobody  of  man-kind  at 
home  but  Sir  Giles." 

"You  are  unjust.  If  Mr.  Brotherton  had  been  here  I 
shouldn't  have  come.     I  find  him  troublesome." 

I  thought  she  blushed,  notwithstanding  the  air  of  freedom 
with  which  she  spoke. 

"  If  he  should  come  into  the  property  to-morrow,"  she  went 
on,  "  I  fear  you  would  have  little  chance  of  completing  your 
work." 

"  If  he  came  into  the  property  this  day  six  months,  I  fear 
he  would  find  it  unfinished.  Certainly  what  was  to  do  should 
remain  undone." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  He  might  win  you  over.  He 
can  tall?:" 

"  I  should  not  be  so  readily  pleased  as  another  might." 

She  bent  towards  me,  and  said  in  an  almost  hissing  whisper : 

"  Wilfrid,  I  hate  him." 

I  started.  She  looked  what  she  said.  The  blood  shot  to  my 
heart,  and  again  rushed  to  my  face.  But  suddenly  she  retreated 
into  her  own  room,  and  noiselessly  closed  the  door.  The  same 
moment  I  heard  that  of  a  further  room  open,  and  presently 
Miss  Brotherton  peeped  in. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?"  she  said.  "  You  are 
already  hard  at  work,  I  see." 

I  was,  in  fact,  doing  nothing.  I  explained  that  I  could  not 
make  a  commencement  without  the  use  of  another  room. 

"  I  will  send  the  housekeeper,  and  you  can  arrange  with 
her,"  she  said,  and  left  me. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Wilson  entered.  Her  manner  was 
more  stiff  and  formal  than  ever.  We  si  ook  hands  in  a  rather 
limp  fashion. 

"  You've  got  your  will  at  last,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  she  said. 
"  I  suppose  the  thing's  to  be  done  !" 

"  It  is,  Mrs.  Wilson,  I  am  happy  to  say.  Sir  Giles  kindly 
offered  me  the  use  of  the  library,  and  I  took  the  liberty  of  re- 


264  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

preseuting  to  him  that  there  was  no  library  until  the  books 
were  arranged." 

"  Why  couldn't  you  take  a  book  away  with  you  and  read  it 
in  comfort  at  home  ?" 

"  How  could  I  take  the  book  home  if  I  couldn't  find  it  ?" 

"  You  could  find  something  worth  reading,  if  that  were  all 
you  wanted." 

"  But  that  is  not  all.     I  have  plenty  of  reading." 

"  Then  I  don't  see  what's  the  good  of  it." 

"  Books  are  very  much  like  people,  Mrs.  Wilson.  There  are 
not  so  maoy  you  want  to  know  all  about ;  but  most  could  tell 
you  things  you  don't  know.  I  want  certain  books  in  order  to 
question  them  about  certain  things." 

"  Well,  all  I  know  is,  it'll  be  more  trouble  than  it's  worth.'' 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will — to  you,  Mrs.  Wilson ;  but  though  I 
am  taking  a  thousand  times  your  trouble,  I  expect  to  be 
well  repaid  for  it." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  that.     Sir  Giles  is  a  liberal  gentleman." 

"  You  don't  suppose  he  is  going  to  pay  me,  Mrs.  Wilson  ?" 

"  AYho  else  should?" 

"  Why,  the  books  themselves,  of  course." 

Evidently  she  thought  I  was  making  game  of  her,  for  she 
was  silent. 

"  Will  you  show  me  which  room  I  can  have  ?"  I  said.  "  It 
must  be  as  near  this  one  as  possible.  Is  the  next  particularly 
wanted?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  the  door  which  led  in  to  Clara's 
room. 

She  went  to  it  quickly,  and  opened  it  far  enough  to  put 
her  hand  in  and  take  the  key  from  the  other  side,  which  she 
then  inserted  on  my  side,  turned  in  the  lock,  drew  out,  and 
put  in  her  pocket. 

"  That  room  is  otherwise  engaged,"  she  said.  "  You  must 
be  content  with  one  across  tne  corridor." 

"  Very  well — if  it  is  not  far,  I  should  make  slow  work  of 
it  if  I  had  to  carry  the  books  a  long  way." 

"  You  can  have  one  of  the  footmen  to  help  you,"  she  said, 
apparently  relenting. 


PREPARATIONS.  265 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  answered.  "  I  will  have  no  one  touch 
the  books  but  myself." 

"  I  will  show  you  one  which  I  think  will  suit  your  pur- 
pose," she  said,  leading  the  way. 

It  was  nearly  opposite — a  bedroom,  sparely  furnished. 

"Thank  you.  This  will  do— if  you  will  order  all  the 
things  to  be  piled  in  that  corner." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  few  moments,  evidently  annoyed,  then 
turned  and  left  the  room,  saying : 

"  I  will  see  to  it,  Mr.  Cumbermede." 

Returning  to  the  books  and  pulling  off  my  coat,  I  had  soon 
compelled  such  a  cloud  of  very  ancient  and  smothering  dust, 
that  when  Miss  Brotherton  again  made  her  appearance  her 
figure  showed  dim  through  the  thick  air,  as  she  stood— dis- 
mayed I  hoped— in  the  doorway.  I  pretended  to  be  unaware 
of  her  presence,  and  went  on  beating  and  blowing,  causing  yet 
thicker  volumes  of  solid  vapor  to  clothe  my  presence.  She 
withdrew  without  even  an  attempt  at  parley. 

Having  heaped  several  great  piles  near  the  door,  each  com- 
posed of  books  of  nearly  the  same  size,  the  first  rudimentary 
approach  to  arrangement,  I  crossed  to  the  other  room  to  see 
what  progress  had  been  made.  To  my  surprise  and  annoy- 
ance, I  found  nothing  had  been  done.  Determined  not  to 
have  my  work  impeded  by  the  remissness  of  the  servants, 
and  seeing  I  must  place  myself  at  once  on  a  proper  footing 
in  the  house,  I  went  to  the  drawing-room  to  ascertain,  if 
possible,  where  Sir  Giles  was.  I  had  of  course  put  on  mv 
coat,  but  having  no  means  of  ablution  at  hand,  I  must  have 
presented  a  very  unpresentable  appearance  when  I  entered. 
Lady  Brotherton  half  rose,  in  evident  surprise  at  my  in- 
trusion, but  at  once  resumed  her  seat,  saying,  as  she  turned 
her  chair  half  towards  the  window  where  the  other  two 
ladies  sat : 

"  The  housekeeper  will  attend  to  you,  Mr.  Cumbermede — 
or  the  butler." 

I  could  see  that  Clara  was  making  inward  merriment  over 
my  appearance  and  reception. 


2G6  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Could  you  tell  mo,  Lady  BrothertOn/'  I  said,  "  where  I 
should  be  likely  to  find  Sir  Giles  ?" 

*'  I  can  give  you  no  information  on  that  point,"  she  answered 
with  consummate  stiffness. 

''  I  know  where  he  is,"  said  Clara,  rising.  "  I  will  take 
you  to  him.     He  is  in  the  study." 

She  took  no  heed  of  the  glance  broadly  thrown  at  her,  but 
approached  the  door. 

I  opened  it,  and  followed  her  out  of  the  room.  As  soon  as 
we  were  beyond  hearing,  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"  How  dared  you  show  your  workman's  face  in  that  draw- 
ing-room ?"  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid  you  have  much  offended 
her  ladyship." 

"  I  hope  it  is  for  the  last  time.  When  I  am  properly  at- 
tended to,  I  shall  have  no  occasion  to  trouble  her." 

She  led  me  to  Sir  Giles's  study.  Except  newspapers  and 
reports  of  companies,  there  was  in  it  nothing  printed.  He 
rose  when  we  entered,  and  came  towards  us. 

"  Looking  like  your  work  already,  Mr.  Cumbermede !"  he 
said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  I  must  not  shake  hands  with  you  this  time,  Sir  Giles," 
I  returned.  ''But  I  am  compelled  to  trouble  you.  I 
can't  get  on  for  want  of  attendance.  I  must  have  a  little 
help." 

I  told  him  how  things  were.  His  rosy  face  grew  rosier, 
and  he  rang  the  bell  angrily.     The  butler  answered  it. 

"  Send  Mrs.  Wilson  here.  And  I  beg,  Hurst,  you  will  see 
that  Mr.  Cumbermede  has  every  attention." 

Mrs.  Wilson  presently  made  her  appearance,  and  stood 
with  a  flushed  face'before  her  master. 

"  Let  Mr  Cumber mede's  orders  be  attended  to  at  once,  Mrs. 
Wilson." 

"  Yes,  Sir  Giles,"  she  answered,  and  waited. 

"I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  letting  me  know,"  he 
added,  turning  to  me.     "  Pray  insist  upon  proper  attention." 

"  Thank  you,  Sir  Giles.     I  shall  not  scruple." 

"  That  will  do,  Mrs.  Wilson.     You  must  not  let  Mr.  Cum- 


PREPARATIONS.  267 

bermede  be  hampered  in  his  kind  labors  for  my  benefit  by  the 
idleness  of  my  servants." 

The  housekeeper  left  the  room,  and  after  a  little  chat  with 
Sir  Giles  I  went  back  to  the  books.  Clara  had  followed  Mrs. 
Wilson,  partly,  I  suspect,  for  the  sake  of  enjoying  her  confu- 
sion. 


268  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ASSISTANCE. 

I  RETURNED  to  my  Solitary  house  as  soon  as  the  evening 
began  to  grow  too  dark  for  my  work,  which,  from  the  lowness 
of  the  wiudows  and  the  age  oT  the  glass,  was  early.  All  the 
way  as  I  went  I  was  thinking  of  Clara.  Not  only  had  time 
somewhat  obliterated  the  last  impression  she  had  made  upon 
me,  but  I  had,  partly  from  the  infection  of  Charley's  manner, 
long  ago  stumbled  upon  various  excuses  for  her  conduct. 
Now  I  said  to  myself  that  she  had  certainly  a  look  of  greater 
sedateness  than  before.  But  her  expression  of  dislike  to 
Geoffrey  Brotherton  had  more  effect  upon  me  than  anything 
else,  inasmuch  as  there  vanity  found  room  for  the  soles  of 
both  her  absurdly  small  feet;  and  that  evening,  when  I  went 
wandering,  after  my  custom,  with  a  volume  of  Dante  in  my 
hand,  the  book  remained  unopened,  and  from  the  form  of 
Clara  flowed  influences  mingling  with  and  gathering  fresh 
power  from  those  of  nature,  whose  feminine  front  now  brooded 
over  me  half-withdrawn  in  the  dim,  starry  night.  I  remem- 
ber that  night  so  well !  I  can  recall  it  now  with  a  calmness 
equal  to  its  own.  Indeed,  in  my  memory  it  seems  to  belong 
to  my  mind  as  much  as  to  the  outer  world  ;  or  rather  the 
night  filled  both,  forming  the  space  in  which  my  thoughts 
moved,  as  well  as  the  space  in  which  the  brilliant  thread  of 
the  sun-lighted  crescent  hung  clasping  the  earth-lighted  bulk 
of  the  moon.  I  wandered  in  the  grass  until  midnight  was 
long  by,  feeling  as  quietly  and  peacefully  at  home  as  if  my 
head  had  been  on  the  pillow  and  my  soul  out  in  a  lovely 
dream  of  cool  delight.  We  lose  much  even  by  the  good  habits 
we  form.  What  tender  and  glorious  changes  pass  over  our 
sleeping  heads  uuseen !  What  moons  rise  and  set  in  rippled  seas 
of  cloud  or  behind  hills  of  stormy  vapor  while  we  are  blind ! 


ASSISTANCE.  269 

What  storms  roll  thundering  across  the  airy  vault,  with  no 
eyes  for  their  keen  lightnings  to  dazzle,  while  we  dream  of  the 
dead  who  will  not  speak  to  us  !  But,  ah  !  I  little  thought  to 
what  a  dungeon  of  gloom  this  lovely  night  w^as  the  jasmine- 
grown  porch ! 

The  next  morning  I  was  glad  to  thiuk  that  there  was  no 
wolf  at  my  door,  howling  work — work !  Moldwarp  Hall 
drew  me  with  redoubled  attraction ;  and  instead  of  waiting 
for  the  afternoon,  which  alone  I  had  intended  to  occupy  with 
my  new  undertaking,  I  set  out  to  cross  the  park  the  moment 
I  had  finished  my  late  breakfast.  Nor  could  I  conceal  from 
myself  that  it  was  quite  as  much  for  the  chance  of  seeing 
Clara  now  and  then  as  from  pleasure  in  the  prospect  of  an 
ordered  library  that  I  repaired  thus  early  to  the  Hall.  In 
the  morning  light,  however,  I  began  to  suspect  as  I  walked, 
that,  although  Clara's  frankness  was  flattering,  it  was  rather  a 
sign  that  she  was  heart-whole  towards  me  than  that  she  was 
careless  of  Brotherton.  I  began  to  doubt  also  whether,  after 
our  first  meeting,  which  she  had  carried  ofi"  so  well — cool  even 
to  kindness,  she  would  care  to  remember  that  I  w^as  in  the 
house,  or  derive  from  it  any  satisfaction  beyond  what  came  of 
the  increased  chances  of  studying  the  Brothertons  from  a 
humorous  point  of  view.  Then,  after  all,  why  was  she  there  ? 
—  and  apparently  on  such  familiar  terms  with  a  family 
socially  so  far  superior  to  her  own  ?  The  result  of  my  cogi- 
tations was  the  resolution  to  take  care  of  myself  But  it  had 
vanished  utterly  before  the  day  was  two  hours  older.  A 
youth's  wise  talk  to  himself  will  not  make  him  a  wise  man, 
any  more  than  the  experience  of  the  father  will  serve  the  son's 
need. 

I  was  hard  at  work  in  my  shirt-sleeves,  carrying  an  armful 
of  books  across  the  corridor,  and  thinking  whether  I  had  not 
better  bring  my  servant  with  me  in  the  afternoon,  when  Clara 
came  out  of  her  room. 

"  Here  already,  Wilfrid !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  don't 
you  have  some  of  the  servants  to  help  you  ?  You're  doing 
what  any  one  might  as  well  do  for  you/- 


270  Y.Il.FUID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  If  these  were  handsomely  bound,"  I  answered,  "  I  shouhi 
not  so  much  mind  ;  but  being  old  and  tattered,  no  one  ought 
to  touch  them  who  does  not  love  them." 

"  Then,  I  suppot-e,  you  wouldn't  trust  me  with  them  either, 
for  I  cannot  pretend  to  anything  beyond  a  second-hand  respect 
for  them." 

"  Wliat  do  you  mean  by  a  second-hand  respect  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  mean  such  respect  as  comes  from  seeing  that  a  scholar 
like  you  respects  them." 

"  Then  I  think  I  could  accord  you  a  second-hand  sort  of 
trust — under  my  own  eye,  that  is,"  I  answered,  laughing. 
"  But  you  can  scarcely  leave  your  hostess  to  help  me." 

"  I  will  ask  Miss  Brotherton  to  come  too.  She  will  pretend 
all  the  respect  you  desire." 

"  I  made  three  times  the  necessary  dust  in  order  to  frighten 
her  away  yesterday." 

"  Ah !  that's  a  pity.  But  I  shall  manage  to  overrule  her 
objections — that  is,  if  you  would  really  like  two  tolerably 
educated  house-maids  to  help  you." 

"  I  will  gladly  endure  one  of  them  for  the  sake  of  the 
other,"  I  replied. 

"  No  compliments,  please,"  she  returned,  and  left  the  room. 

In  about  half  an  hour  she  reappeared,  accompanied  by  Miss 
Brotherton.  They  were  in  white  wrappers,  with  their  dresses 
shortened  a  little,  and  their  hair  tucked  under  mob  caps  Miss 
Brotherton  looked  like  a  lady's  maid,  Clara  like  a  lady  acting 
a  lady's  maid.  I  assumed  the  command  at  once,  pointing  out 
to  what  heaps  in  the  other  room  those  I  had  grouped  in  this 
were  to  be  added,  and  giving  strict  injunctions  as  to  carrying 
only  a  few  at  once,  and  laying  them  down  with  care  in  regu- 
larly ordered  piles.  Clara  obeyed,  with  a  mock  submission. 
Miss  Brotherton  with  a  reserve  which  heightened  the  impres- 
sion of  her  dress.  I  was  instinctively  careful  how  I  spoke  to 
Clara,  fearing  to  compromise  her,  but  she  seemed  all  at  once 
to  change  her  role,  and  began  to  propose,  object,  and  even 
insist  upon  her  own  way,  drawling  from  me  the  threat  of  imme- 
diate dismission  from  my  service,  at  which   her  companion 


ASSISTANCE.  271 

laughed  with  an  awkwardness  showing  she  regarded  the 
pleasantry  as  a  presumption.  Before  one  o'clock  the  first 
room  was  almost  empty.  Then  the  great  bell  rang,  and  Clara, 
coming  from  the  auxiliary  chamber,  put  her  head  in  at  the 
door. 

"  Won't  you  come  to  luncheon  ?"  she  said,  w^ith  a  sly  arch- 
ness, looking  none  the  less  bewitching  for  a  smudge  or  two  on 
her  lovely  face,  or  the  blackness  of  the  delicate  hands  which 
she  held  up  like  two  paws  for  my  admiration. 

"  In  the  servants'  hall  ? — Workmen  don't  sit  down  with 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  Did  Miss  Brotherton  send  you  to  ask 
me?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  you  had  better  come  and  lunch  with  me  V 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  hope  you  will  some  day  honor  my  little  fragment  of  a 
house.     It  is  a  curious  old  place,"  I  said. 

"  I  don't  like  musty  old  places,"  she  replied. 

"  But  I  have  heard  you  speak  with  no  little  admiration  of 
the  Hall :  some  parts  of  it  are  older  than  my  sentry-box." 

"  I  can't  say  I  admire  it  at  all  as  a  place  to  live  in,"  she 
answered  curtly. 

"  But  I  was  not  asking  you  to  live  in  mine,"  I  said — fool- 
ishly arguing. 

She  looked  annoyed,  whether  with  herself  or  me  I  could  not  ^ 
tell,  but  instantly  answered, — 

"  Some  day — when  I  can  without .     But  I  must  go  and 

make  myself  tidy,  or  Miss  Brotherton  will  be  fancying  I  have 
been  talking  to  you." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  then  ?" 

"  Only  asking  you  to  come  to  lunch." 

"Will  you  tell  her  that?" 

"  Yes — if  she  says  anything." 

"  Then  you  had  better  make  haste  and  be  asked  no  ques- 
tions." 

She  glided  away.  I  threw  on  my  coat,  and  re-crossed  the 
park. 


272  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

But  I  was  so  eager  to  see  again  the  fair  face  in  the  mob  cap 
that  although  not  at  all  certain  of  its  reappearance,  I  told  ray 
man  to  go  at  once  and  bring  the  mare.  He  made  haste,  and 
by  the  time  1  had  finished  my  dinner,  she  was  at  the  door.  I 
gave  her  the  rein,  and  two  or  three  minutes  brought  me  back 
to  tlie  Hall,  where,  having  stabled  her,  I  was  at  my  post 
again,  I  believe,  before  they  had  finished  luncheon.  I  had  a 
great  heap  of  books  ready  in  the  second  room  to  carry  into 
the  first,  and  had  almost  concluded  they  would  not  come, 
when  I  heard  their  voices — and  presently  they  entered,  but 
not  in  their  mob  caps. 

"  What  an  unmerciful  master  you  are !"  said  Clara,  looking 
at  the  heap.     "  I  thought  you  had  gone  home  to  lunch." 

"  I  went  home  to  dinner,"  I  said.  "  I  get  more  out  of  the 
day  by  dining  early." 

"  How  is  that,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?"  asked  Miss  Brotherton, 
with  a  nearer  approach  to  cordiality  than  she  had  yet  shown. 

"  I  think  the  evening  the  best  part  of  the  day — too  good  to 
spend  in  eating  and  drinking." 

"  But,"  said  Clara,  quite  gravely,  "  are  not  those  the  chief 
ends  of  existence?" 

"  Your  friend  is  satirical,  Miss  Brotherton,"  I  remarked. 

"  At  least,  you  are  not  of  her  opinion,  to  judge  by  the  time 
you  have  taken,"  she  returned. 

"  I  have  been  back  nearly  an  hour,"  I  said.  "  Workmen 
don't  take  long  over  their  meals." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  don't  want  any  more  of  us  now," 
said  Clara.  "  You  will  arrange  the  books  you  bring  from  the 
next  room  upon  these  empty  shelves,  I  presume." 

"  No,  not  yet.  I  must  not  begin  that  until  I  have  cleared 
the  very  last,  got  it  thoroughly  cleaned,  the  shelves  seen  to, 
and  others  put  up." 

"  What  a  tremendous  labor  you  have  undertaken,  Mr. 
Cumbermede !"  said  Miss  Brotherton.  "  I  am  quite  ashamed 
you  should  do  so  much  for  us." 

"  I,  on  the  contrary,  am  delighted  to  be  of  any  service  to 
Sir  Giles." 


ASSISTANCE.  273 

"  But  you  don't  expect  us  to  slave  all  day  as  we  did  in  the 
morning  ?"  said  Clara. 

"  Certainly  not,  Miss  Coningham.  I  am  too  grateful  to  be 
exacting." 

"  Thank  you  for  that  pretty  speech.  Come,  then,  Miss 
Brotherton,  we  must  have  a  walk.  We  haven't  been  out  of 
doors  to-day." 

"  Really,  Miss  Coningham,  I  think  the  least  we  can  do  is 
to  help  Mr.  Cumbermede  to  our  small  ability." 

"  Nonsense !"  (Miss  Brotherton  positively  started  at  the 
word).  "  Any  two  of  the  maids  or  men  would  serve  his 
purpose  better,  if  he  did  not  affect  fastidiousness.  We  shan't 
be  allowed  to  come  to-morrow  if  we  overdo  it  to-day." 

Miss  Brotherton  was  evidently  on  the  point  of  saying  some- 
thing indignant,  but  yielded  notwithstanding,  and  I  was  left 
alone  once  more.  Again  I  labored  until  the  shadows  grew 
thick  around  the  gloomy  walls.  As  I  galloped  home,  I  caught 
sight  of  my  late  companions  coming  across  the  park  ;  and  I 
trust  I  shall  not  be  hardly  judged  if  I  confess  that  I  did  sit 
straighter  in  my  saddle,  and  mind  my  seat  better.  Thus  ended 
my  second  day's  work  at  the  library  of  Moldw^rp  HalL 


13 


274  WILFIUD  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

AN    EXPOSTULATION. 

Neither  of  the  ladies  came  to  me  the  next  morning.  As 
far  as  my  work  was  concerned,  I  was  in  considerably  less  need 
of  their  assistance,  for  it  lay  only  between  two  rooms  opening 
into  each  other.  Nor  did  I  feel  any  great  disappointment,  for 
so  long  as  a  man  has  something  to  do,  expectation  is  pleasure 
enough,  and  will  continue  such  for  a  long  time.  It  is  those  who 
are  unemployed  to  whom  expectation  becomes  an  agony.  I 
went  home  to  my  solitary  dinner  almost  resolved  to  return  to 
my  original  plan  of  going  only  in  the  afternoons, 

I  was  not  thoroughly  in  love  with  Clara ;  but  it  was 
certainly  the  hope  of  seeing  her,  and  not  the  pleasure  of 
handling  the  dusty  books,  that  drew  me  back  to  the  library 
that  afternoon.  I  had  got  rather  tired  of  the  whole  affair  in 
the  morning.  It  was  very  hot,  and  the  dust  was  choking,  and 
of  the  volumes  I  opened  as  they  passed  through  my  hands, 
not  one  was  of  the  slightest  interest  to  me.  But  for  the  chance 
of  seeing  Clara  I  should  have  lain  in  the  grass  instead. 

No  one  came.  I  grew  wxary,  and  for  a  change  retreated 
into  the  armory.  Evidently,  not  the  slightest  heed  was  paid 
to  the  weapons  now,  and  I  was  thinking  with  myself  that  when 
I  had  got  the  books  in  order  I  might  give  a  few  days  to  furbish- 
ing and  oiling  them,  when  the  door  from  the  gallery  opened, 
and  Clara  entered. 

"  What !  a  truant  ?"  she  said. 

"  You  take  accusation  at  least  by  the  forelock,  Clara.  Who 
is  the  real  truant  now — if  I  may  suggest  a  mistai^e  ?" 

"J  never  undertook  anything  How  many  guesses  have 
you  made  as  to  the  cause  of  your  desertion  to-day  T' 

"  Well,  three  or  four." 


AN   EXPOSTULATION.  275 

"  Have  you  made  one  as  to  the  cause  of  Miss  Brotherton's 
graciousness  to  you  yesterday  ?" 

"  At  least  I  remarked  the  change." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  There  was  a  short  notice  of  some  of  your 
writings  in  a  certain  magazine  which  I  contrived  should  fall 
in  her  way." 

"  Impossible !"  I  exclaimed.  "  I  have  never  put  my  name 
to  anything." 

"  But  you  have  put  the  same  name  to  all  your  contributions." 

"  How  should  the  reviewer  know  it  meant  me  ?" 

"  Your  name  was  never  mentioned." 

I  thought  she  looked  a  little  confused  as  she  said  this. 

"  Then  how  should  Miss  Brotherton  know  it  meant  me  ?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment — then  answered : 

"  Perhaps  from  internal  evidence.  I  suppose  I  must  confess 
I  told  her." 

"  Then  how  did  you  know  ?" 

"  I  have  been  one  of  your  readers  for  a  long  time." 

"  But  how  did  you  come  to  know  my  work  ?" 

"  That  has  oozed  out." 

"Some  one  must  have  told  you,"  I  said. 

"  That  is  my  secret,"  she  replied,  with  the  air  of  making  it 
a  mystery  in  order  to  tease  me. 

"  It  must  be  all  a  mistake,"  I  said.   "  Show  me  the  magazine." 

"  As  you  won't  take  my  word  for  it,  I  won't." 

"  Well,  I  shall  soon  find  out.  There  is  but  one  could  have 
done  it.  It  is  very  kind  of  him,  no  doubt ;  but  I  don't  like  it. 
That  kind  of  thing  should  come  of  itself — not  through  friends." 

"  Who  do  you  fancy  has  done  it  ?" 

"  If  you  have  a  secret,  so  have  I." 

My  answer  seemed  to  relieve  her,  though  I  could  not  tell 
what  gave  me  the  impression. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  yours,  and  I  will  keep  mine,"  she  said. 
"  I  only  wanted  to  explain  Miss  Brotherton's  condescension 
yesterday." 

"  I  thought  you  had  been  going  to  explain  why  you  didn^t 
come  to-day." 


276  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  That  is  only  a  reactio;i.  I  have  no  doubt  she  thinks  she 
went  too  far  yesterday." 

"  That  is  absurd.     She  was  civil ;  that  was  all." 

*'  In  reading  your  thermometer,  you  must  know  its  -zero 
first/'  she  replied  sententiously.  "  Is  the  sword  you  call  yours 
there  stil!  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  call  it  mine  still." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  it  then?  I  should  have  carried  it  oflf 
long  ago." 

"  To  steal  my  own  would  be  to  prejudice  my  right/'  I  re- 
turned. "  But  I  have  often  thought  of  telling  Sir  Giles  about  it." 

"Why  don't  you  then?" 

"  I  hardly  know  My  head  has  been  full  of  other  things, 
and  any  time  will  do.  But  I  should  like  to  see  it  in  its  place 
once  more." 

I  had  taken  it  from  the  wall,  and  now  handed  it  to  her. 

"  Is  this  it  ?"  she  said,  carelessly. 

"  It  is — -just  as  it  was  carried  off  my  bed  that  night." 

"  What  room  were  you  in  ?"  she  asked,  trying  to  draw  it 
from  the  sheath. 

"  I  can't  tell.     I've  never  been  in  it  since." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  me  to  have  the  curiosity  natural  to 
a " 

"  To  a  woman — no,"  I  said. 

"  To  a  man  of  spirit,"  she  retorted,  with  an  appearance  of 
indignation.  "  I  don't  believe  you  can  tell  even  how  it  came 
into  your  possession  ?" 

"  Why  shouldn't  it  have  been  in  the  family  from  time  im- 
memorial ?" 

"  So ! — And  you  don't  care  either  to  recover  it,  or  to  find 
out  how  you  lost  it !" 

"  How  can  I  ?     Where  is  Mr.  Close  ?" 

"  AVhy,  dead — years  and  years  ago !" 

"  So  I  understood.  I  can't  well  apply  to  him,  then, — and 
I  am  certain  no  one  else  knows." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.     Perhaps  Sir  Giles " 

"  I  am  positive  Sir  Giles  knows  nothmg  about  it." 


AN   EXPOSTULATION.  277 

"T  have  reason  to  think  the  story  is  not  altogether  unkno^vn 
in  the  familj."" 

"  Have  you  told  it  then  ?" 

"  Ko.     But. I  ^lave  heard  it  alluded  to." 

"By  Sir  Giles'?" 

"No." 

"  By  whom,  then  ?" 

"  I  will  "answer  no  .more  questions." 

"  Geoffrey,  I  suppose  ?" 

*'  You  are  not  polite,  Do  you  suppose  I  am  bound  to  tell 
you  all  I  know?" 

"  Not  by  any  means.  Only,  you  oughtn't  to  pique  a  curi- 
osity you  don't  mean  to  satisfy." 

"  But  if  I'm  not  at  liberty  to  say  more  ? — All  I  meant  to 
say  was,  that  if  I  were  you,  I  would  get  back  that  sword." 

"  You  hint  at  a  secret,  and  yet  suppose  I  could  carry  off  its 
object  as  I  might  a  rusty  nail  which  any  passer-by  would  be 
made  welcome  to !" 

"  You  might  take  it  first,  and  mention  the  thing  to  Sir  Giles 
afterwards." 

"Why  not  mention  it  first?" 

"  Only  on  the  supposition  you  had  not  the  courage  to  claim 
it." 

"  In  that  case  I  certainly  shouldn't  have  the  courage  to  avow 
the  deed  afterwards.     I  don't  understand  you,  Clara." 

She  laughed. 

"  That  is  always  your  way,"  she  said.  "  You  take  every- 
thing so  seriously  !  Why  couldn't  I  make  a  proposition  with- 
out being  supposed  to  mean  it  ?" 

I  was  not  satisfied.  There  was  something  short  of  upright- 
ness in  the  whole  tone  of  her  attempted  persuasion — which  in- 
deed I  could  hardly  believe  to  have  been  so  lightly  intended  as 
she  now  suggested.  The  effect  on  my  feeling  for  her  was  that 
of  a  slight  frost  on  the  spring  blossom. 

She  had  been  examining  the  hilt  with  a  look  of  interest,  and 
was  now  for  the  third  time  trying  to  draw  the  blade  from  the 
sheath. 


278  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  It's  no  use,  Clara,"  I  said.  "  It  has  been  too  many  years 
glued  to  the  scabbard." 

"  Glued !"  she  echoed.     "  What  do  you  mean?" 

I  did  not  reply.  An  expression  almost  of  horror  shadowed 
her  face,  and  at  the  same  moment,  to  my  astonishment  she 
drew  it  halfway. 

"Why!  you  enchantress!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  never  saw  so 
much  of  it  before.  It  is  wonderfully  bright — when  one 
thinlvs  of  the  years  it  has  been  shut  in  darkness." 

She  handed  it  to  me  as  it  was,  saying : 

"  If  that  weapon  was  mine,  I  should  never  rest  until  I  had 
found  out  everything  concerning  it." 

•'  That  is  easily  said,  Clara ;  but  how  can  I  ?  My  uncle 
knew  nothing  about  it.  My  grandmother  did,  no  doubt,  but 
almost  all  I  can  remember  her  saying  was  something  about  my 
great-grandfather  and  Sir  Marmaduke." 

As  I  spoke,  I  tried  to  draw  it  entirely,  but  it  would  yield  no 
farther.  I  then  sought  to  replace  it,  but  it  would  not  move. 
That  it  had  yielded  to  Clara's  touch  gave  it  a  fresh  interest 
and  value. 

"  I  was  sure  it  had  a  history,"  said  Clara.  "  Have  you  no 
family  papers  ?  Your  house,  you  say,  is  nearly  as  old  as  this : 
are  there  no  papers  of  any  kind  in  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  few,"  I  answered — "  the  lease  of  the  farm  and " 

"  Oh  !  rubbish  !"  she  said.     "  Isn't  the  house  your  own  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  have  you  ever  thoroughly  searched  it  ?" 

"  I  haven't  had  time  yet." 

"  Not  had  time  ?"  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  something  so 
like  the  uttermost  contempt  that  I  w^as  bewildered. 

"  I  mean  some  day  or  other  to  have  a  rummage  in  the  old 
lumber  room,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  I  do  think  that  is  the  least  you  can  do — if  only  out 
of  respect  to  your  ancestors.  Depend  on  it,  they  don't  like  to 
be  forgotten  any  more  than  other  people." 

The  intention  I  had  just  announced  was,  however,  but  just 
born  of  her  words.     I  had  never  yet  searched  even  my  grand- 


AN    EXrOSTULATiON.  27^ 

mother's  bureau,  and  liad  but  this  very  moment  fancied  thera 
might  be  papers  in  some  old  chest  in  the  lumber-room.  That 
room  had  already  begun  to  occupy  my  thoughts  from  another 
point  of  view,  and  hence,  in  part,  no  doubt  the  suggestion.  I 
was  anxious  to  have  a  visit  from  Charley.  He  might  bring 
with  him  some  of  our  London  friends.  There  was  absolutely 
no  common  room  in  the  house  except  the  hall-kitchen.  Tho 
room  we  had  always  called  the  lumber-room  was  over  it,  and 
nearly  as  large.  It  had  a  tall  stone  chimney-piece,  elaborately 
carved,  aild  clearly  had  once  been  a  room  for  entertainment. 
The  idea  of  restoring  it  to  its  original  dignity  arose  in  my 
mind;  and  I  hoped  ths^t,  furnished  after  as  antique  a  fashion 
as  I  could  compass,  it  would  prove  a  fine  room.  The  win- 
dows were  small,  to  be  sure,  and  the  pitch  rather  low,  but  the 
"whitewashed  walls  were  panneled,  and  I  had  some  hopes  of  the 
ceiling. 

"  Who  knows,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  walked  home  that 
evening,  "but  I  may  come  upon  papers?  I  do  remember 
something  in  the  farthest  corner  that  looks  like  a  great  che.sl." 

Little  more  had  passed  between  us,  but  Clara  left  me  with 
the  old  dissatisfaction  beginning  to  turn  itself,  as  if  about  to 
awake  once  more.  For  the  present  I  hung  the  half  naked 
blade  upon  the  wall,  for  I  dare  not  force  it .  lest  the  scabbard 
should  go  to  pieces. 

When  I  reached  home  I  found  a  letter  from  Charley,  to  the 
effect  that,  if  convenient,  he  would  pay  me  a  visit  the  following 
week.  His  mother  and  sister,  he  said,  had  been  invited  to 
Moldwarp  Hall.  His  father  was  on  the  continent  for  his 
health.  Without  having  consulted  them  on  the  matter,  which 
might  involve  them  in  after  difficulty,  he  would  come  -to  me, 
and  so  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  them  in  the  sunshine  of 
his  father's  absence.  I  wrote  at  once  ^hut  I  should  be  de- 
lighted to  receive  him. 

The  next  mornmg  I  spent  with  my  man  in  the  lumber  room  ; 
and  before  mid-day  the  rest  of  the  house  looked  like  an  old 
curiosity  shop — It  was  so  littered  with  odds  and  ends  of  dust- 
bloomed  antiquity      It  was  hard  work,  and  in  the  afternoon  I 


280  WILFRID  CUMBEKMEDE. 

found  myself  disinclined  for  more  exercise  of  a  similar  soi-t 
I  had  IJlith  out,  and  took  a  leisurely  ride  instead.  The  next 
day  and  the  next  also  I  remained  at  home.  The  following 
morning  I  went  again  to  Moldwarp  Hall. 

I  had  not  been  busy  more  than  an  hour  or  so  when  Clara, 
who,  I  presume,  had  in  passing  heard  me  at  work,  looked  in. 

"  Who  is  a  truant  now  ?"  she  said.  "Aren't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself?  Here  has  Miss  Brotherton  been  almost  curioii.i 
concerning  your  absence,  and  Sir  Giles  more  than  once  on  the 
point  of  sending  to  inquire  after  you !" 

"  Why  didn't  lie,  then  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  suppose  he  was  afraid  it  might  look  like  an  asser- 
tion of — of — of  baronial  rights,  or  something  of  the  sort.  How 
could  you  behave  in  such  an  inconsiderate  fashion  ?" 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  have  some  business  of  my  own." 

"  Certainly.  But  with  so  many  anxious  friends,  you  ought 
to  have  given  a  hint  of  your  intentions." 

"  I  had  none,  however." 

"  Of  which  ?     Friends  or  intentions  T* 

«  Either." 

"  What !  No  friends  ?  I  verily  surprised  Miss  Pease  in 
the  act  of  studying  her  Cookery  for  Invalids — in  the  hope  of 
finding  a  patient  in  you,  no  doubt.  She  wanted  to  come  and 
nurse  you,  but  daredn't  propose  it." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  her." 

"  No  doubt.  But  then  you  see  she's  ready  to  commit  sui- 
cide any  day,  poor  old  thing,  but  for  lack  of  courage !" 

"  It  must  be  dreary  for  her." 

"  Dreary !  I  should  poison  the  old  dragon." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  had  better  tell  you  for  Miss  Pease's  sake, 
who  is  evidently  the  only  one  that  cares  a  straw  about  me  in 
the  matter,  that  possibly  I  shall  be  absent  a  good  many  days 
this  week,  and  perhaps  the  next,  too." 

"Why  then— if  I  may  ask— Mr.  Absolute?" 

"  Because  a  friend  of  mine  is  going  to  pay  me  a  visit.  You 
remember  Charley  Osborne,  don't  you  ?  Of  course  you  do. 
You  remember  the  ice-cave,  I  am  sine." 


AN    EXPOSTULATION.  281 

"Yes  I  do — quite  well,"  she  answered. 

I  faucicd  1  saw  a  shadow  cross  her  face. 

"  When  do  you  expect  him  ?"  she  asked,  turning  away,  and 
picking  a  book  from  the  floor. 

"  In  a  week  or  so,  I  think.  He  tells  me  his  mother  and 
sister  are  coming  here  on  a  visit." 

"  Yes — so  I  believe — to-morrow,  I  think.  I  wonder  if  I 
ought  to  be  going.  I  don't  think  I  will.  I  came  to  please 
them — at  all  events  not  to  please  myself;  but  as  I  find  it 
pleasanter  than  I  expected,  I  won't  go  without  a  hint  and  a 
half  at  least." 

"  Why  should  you  ?     There  is  plenty  of  room.'* 

"  Yes  ;  but  don't  you  see  ? — so  many  inferiors  in  the  house 
at  once  might  be  too  much  for  Madame  Dignity.  She  finds 
one  quite  enough,  I  suspect." 

"You  do  not  mean  that  she  regards  the  Osbornes  as  in- 
feriors ?" 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  Never  mind.  I  can  take  care  of 
myself     Have  you  any  work  for  me  to-day  ?" 

"  Plenty,  if  you  are  in  a  mood  for  it." 

"  I  will  fetch  Miss  Brotherton." 

"  I  can  do  without  A-er." 

She  went,  however,  and  did  not  return.  As  I  walked  home 
to  dinner,  she  and  Miss  Brotherton  passed  me  in  the  carriage, 
on  their  way,  as  I  learned  afterward,  to  fetch  the  Osborne 
ladies  from  the  rectory,  some  ten  miles  oflT.  I  did  not  return 
to  Moldwarp  Hall,  but  helped  Styles  in  the  lumber-room, 
which  before  night  we  had  almost  emptied. 

The  next  morning  I  was  favored  with  a  little  desultory  as- 
sistance from  the  two  ladies,  but  saw  nothing  of  the  visitors. 
In  the  afternoon,  and  both  the  following  days,  I  took  my  ser- 
vant with  me,  who  got  through  more  work  than  the  two 
together,  and  we  advanced  it  so  far  that  I  was  able  to  leave 
the  room  next  the  armory  in  the  hands  of  the  carpenter  and 
the  housemaid,  with  sufficient  directions,  and  did  not  return 
that  week. 


262  WiiJl'lOU    taiAlKKRMKllK,. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A    TALK     WITH    CHARLEY. 

The  following  Monday,  in  the  evening,  Charley  arrived,  in 
great  spirits,  more  excited  indeed  than  I  liked  to  see  him. 
There  was  a  restlessness  in  his  eye  which  made  me  especially 
anxious,  for  it  raised  a  doubt  whether  the  appearance  of  good 
spirits  was  not  the  result  merely  of  resistance  to  some  anxiety. 
But  I  hoped  my  companionship,  with  the  air  and  exercise  of 
the  country,  would  help  to  quiet  him  again.  In  the  late  twi- 
light we  took  a  walk  together  up  and  dawn  my  field. 

"  I  suppose  you  let  your  mother  know  you  were  coming, 
Charley  ?"  I  said. 

"  I  did  not,"  he  answered.  "  My  father  must  have  nothing 
to  lay  to  their  charge  in  case  he  should  hear  of  our  meeting." 

"  But  he  has  not  forbidden  you  to  go  home,  has  he  ?" 

"  No,  certainly.  But  he  as  good  as  told  me  I  was  not  to  go 
home  while  he  was  away.  He  does  not  wish  me  to  be  there 
without  his  presence  to  counteract  my  evil  influences.  He 
seems  to  regard  my  mere  proximity  as  dangerous.  I  some- 
times wondered  whether  the  severity  of  his  religion  may  not 
have  afiected  his  mind.  Almost  all  madness,  you  know,  turns 
either  upon  love  or  religion." 

"  So  I  have  heard.  1  doubt  it — with  men.  It  may  be  with 
women. — But  you  won't  surprise  them  ?  It  might  startle  your 
mother  too  much.  She  is  not  strong,  you  say.  Hadn't  I 
better  tell  Clara  Coningham  ?  She  can  let  them  know  you 
are  here." 

"  It  would  be  better." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  going  there  with  me  to-morrow  ?  I 
will  send  my  man  with  a  note  in  the  morning." 

He  looked  a  little  puzzled  and  undetermined,  but  said  at 
length ; 


A   TALK    WITH   CHARLEY.  283 

"  I  dare  say  your  plan  is  the  best.  How  long  has  Miss  Co- 
ningham  been  here?" 

"  About  ten  days,  I  think." 

He  looked  thoughtful,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  I  see,  you  are  afraid  of  my  falling  in  love  with  her  again/' 
I  said.  "  I  confess  I  like  her  much  better  than  I  did,  but  I 
am  not  quite  sure  about  her  yet.  She  is  very  bewitching,  any- 
how, and  a  little  more  might  make  me  lose  my  heart  to  her. 
The  evident  dislike  she  has  to  Brotherton  would  of  itself  re- 
commend her  to  any  friend"  of  yours  or  mine." 

He  turned  his  face  away. 

"  Do  not  be  anxious  about  me,"  I  went  on.  "  The  first 
shadowy  conviction  of  any  untruthfulness  in  her,  if  not  suffi- 
cient to  change  my  feelings  at  once,  would  at  once  initiate  a 
backward  movement  in  them." 

He  kept  his  face  turned  away,  and  I  was  perplexed.  After 
a  few  moments  of  silence,  he  turned  it  toward  me  again,  as  if 
relieved  by  some  resolution  suddenly  formed,  and  said  with  a 
smile  under  a  still  clouded  brow . 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  we'll  see.  It'll  all  come  right,  I  dare  say. 
Write  your  note  early  and  we'll  follow  it.  How  glad  1  shall 
be  to  have  a  glimpse  of  that  blessed  mother  of  mine  without 
her  attendant  dragon !" 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  talk  of  your  father  so.  Surely,  after 
all  he  IS  a  good  man  !" 

"  Then  I  want  a  new  reading  of  the  word." 

"  He  loves  God,  at  least." 

"  I  won't  stop  to  inquire," — said  Charley,  plunging  at  once 
into  argument, — "  what  influence  for  good  it  might  or  might 
not  have  to  love  a  non-existenca  I  will  only  ask — Is  it  a  good 
God  he  loves,  or  a  bad  one  ?  If  the  latter,  he  can  hardly  be 
called  good  for  loving  him." 

"  But  if  there  be  a  God  at  all,  he  must  be  a  good  God" 

"  Suppose  the  true  God  to  be  the  good  God,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  my  father  worships  nim.  There  is  such  a  thing  as 
worshipping  a  false  God.  At  least  the  Bible  recognizes  it.  For 
my  part,  I  find  myself  compelled  to  say,  either  that  the  true 


284  WILFRID   CUiilBEiiMEDE. 

God  is  not  a  good  God,  or  that  my  father  does  not  worship  the 
true  God.  If  you  say  he  worships  the  God  of  the  Bible,  I 
neither  admit  nor  dispute  the  assertion,  but  set  it  aside  as  alter- 
ing nothing  ;  for  if  I  admit  it,  the  argument  lies  thus :  my 
i'ather  worships  a  bad  God ;  my  fiither  worships  the  God  of  the 
Bible :  therefore  the  God  of  the  Bible  is  a  bad  God ;  and  if  1 
admit  the  authority  of  the  Bible,  then  the  true  God  is  a  bad 
God.  If,  however,  I  dispute  the  assertion  that  he  worships  the 
God  of  the  Bible,  I  am  left  to  show,  if  I  can,  that  the  God  of 
the  Bible  is  a  good  God,  and,  if  I  a-dmit  the  authority  of  the 
Bil)le,  to  worship  another  than  my  father's  God.  If  I  do  not 
admit  the  authority  of  the  Bible,  there  may,  for  all  that,  be  a 
good  God,  or,  which  is  next  best  to  a  perfectly  good  God,  there 
may  be  no  God  at  all." 

"  Put  like  a  lawyer,  Charley  ;  and  yet  I  would  venture  to 
join  issue  with  your  first  assertion — on  which  the  whole  argu- 
ment is  founded — that  your  father  worships  a  bad  God." 

"  Assuredly  what  he  asserts  concerning  his  God  is  bad." 

"  Admitted ;  but  does  he  assert  only  bad  things  of  his  God  ?'* 

"  I  daren't  say  that.  But  God  is  one.  You  will  hardly  dare 
the  proposition  that  an  infinite  being  may  be  partly  good  and 
partly  bad." 

"  No.  I  heartily  hold  that  God  must  be  one — a  proposition 
far  more  essential  than  that  there  is  one  God — so  far  at  least 
as  my  understanding  can  judge.  It  is  only  in  the  limited 
human  nature  that  good  and  evil  can  co-exist.  But  there  is 
just  the  point :  we  are  not  speaking  of  the  absolute  God,  but 
of  the  idea  of  a  man  concerning  that  God.  You  could  suppose 
yourself  utterly  convinced  of  a  good  God  long  before  your 
ideas  of  goodness  were  so  correct  as  to  render  you  incapable  of 
attributing  anything  wrong  to  that  God.  Supposing  such  to 
be  the  case,  and  that  you  came  afterward  to  find  that  you  had 
been  thinking  something  wrong  about  him,  do  you  think  you 
would  therefore  grant  that  you  had  been  believing  either  in  a 
wicked  or  in  a  false  God  ?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Then  you  must  give  your  father  the  same  scope.    He  attri- 


A   TALK    WITH    CHARLEY.  2Sj 

butes  what  we  are  absolutely  certain  are  bad  things  to  his  God 
— and  yet  he  may  believe  in  a  good  God,  for  the  good  in  his 
idea  of  God  is  alone  that  in  virtue  of  which  he  is  able  to  believe 
in  him.     No  mortal  can  believe  in  the  bad." 

"  He  puts  the  evil  foremost  in  his  creed  and  exhortations." 

"  That  may  be.  Few  people  know  their  own  deeper  minds. 
The  more  potent  a  power  in  us,  I  suspect  it  is  the  more  hidden 
from  our  scrutiny." 

"  If  there  be  a  God  then,  Wilfrid,  he  is  very  indifferent-  to 
what  his  creatures  think  of  him." 

"  Perhaps  very  patient  and  hopeful,  Charley — who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  he  will  not  force  himself  upon  them,  but  help  them 
to  grow  into  the  true  knowledge  of  him.  Your  father  may 
worship  the  true  God,  and  yet  have  only  a  little  of  that  know- 
ledge." 

A  silence  followed.     At  length — 

"  Thank  you  for  my  father,"  said  Charley. 

"  Thank  my  uncle,"  I  said.  • 

"For  not  being  like  my  father? — I  do,"  he  returned. 

It  was  the  loveliest  evening  that  brooded  round  us  as  we 
walked.  The  moon  had  emerged  from  a  rippled  sea  of  gray 
cloud,  over  which  she  cast  her  dull  opaline  halo.  Great  masses 
and  banks  of  cloud  lay  about  the  rest  of  the  heavens,  and  in 
the  dark  rifts  between,  a  star  or  two  were  visible,  gazing  from 
the-  awful  distance. 

"  I  wish  I  could  let  it  into  me,  Wilfrid,"  said  Charley,  after 
we  had  been  walking  in  silence  for  some  time  along  the  grass. 

"  Let  what  into  you,  Charley  ?" 

"  The  night  and  the  blue  and  the  stars." 

"Why  don't  you,  then?" 

"I  hate  being  taken  in.  The  more  pleasant  a  self-deception 
the  less  I  choose  to  submit  to  it." 

"  That  is  reasonable.     But  where  lies  the  deception  ?" 

"  I  don't  say  it's  a  deception.   I  only  don't  know  that  it  isn't." 

"Please  explain." 

"  I  mean  what  you  call  the  beauty  of  the  night." 

"Surely  there  can  be  little  question  of  that?" 


286  WILFIilD   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Ever  so  little  is  enough.  Suppose  I  asked  you  wherein  its 
beauty  consisted  :  would  you  be  satisfied  if  I  said — In  the 
arrangement  of  the  blue  and  the  white,  with  the  sparkles  oi 
yellow,  and  the  colors  about  the  scarce- vi.sible  moon  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  should  reply  that  it  lay  in  the  gracious 
peace  of  the  whole — troubled  only  with  the  sense  of  some 
lovely  secret  behind,  of  which  itself  was  but  the  half-modeled 
repre'^ontation,  and  therefore  the  reluctant  outcome." 

"  Suppose  I  rejected  the  latter  half  of  what  you  say,  admit- 
ting the  former,  but  judging  it  only  the  fortuitous  result  of 
the  half-necessary,  half-fortuitous  concurrences  of  nature.  Sup- 
pose I  said: — The  air  which  is  necessary  to  our  life,  happens  to 
be  blue ;  the  stars  can't  help  shining  through  it  and  making  it 
look  deep ;  and  the  clouds  are  just  there  because  they  must  be 
somewhere  till  they  fall  again ;  all  which  is  more  agreeable  to 
us  than  fog,  because  we  feel  more  comfortable  in  weather  of 
the  sort,  whence,  through  complacency  and  habit,  we  have  got 
to  call  it  beautiful : — suppose  I  said  this,  would  you  accept  it  ?" 

"  Such  a  theory  would  destroy  my  delight  in  nature  alto- 
gether." 

"  Well,  isn't  it  the  truth  ?" 

"  It  would  be  easy  to  show  that  the  sense  of  beauty  does  not 
spring  from  any  amount  of  comfort ;  but  I  do  not  care  to  pur- 
sue the  argument  from  that  starting-point. — I  confess,  when 
you  have  once  waked  the  questioning  spirit,  and  I  look  up  at 
the  clouds  and  the  stars  with  what  I  may  call  sharpened  eyes 
— eyes,  that  is,  which  assert  their  seeing,  and  so  render  them- 
selves incapable  for  the  time  of  submitting  to  impressions,  I 
am  as  blind  as  any  Sadducee  could  desire.  I  see  blue,  and 
white,  and  gold,  and,  in  short,  a  tent-roof  somewhat  ornate.  I 
dare  say  if  I  were  in  a  miserable  mood,  having  been  deceived 
and  disappointed,  like  Hamlet,  I  should  with  him  see  there 
nothing  but  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapors.  But 
I  know  that  when  I  am  passive  to  its  powers,  I  am  aware  of  a 
presence  altogether  different — of  a  something  at  once  soothing 
and  elevating,  powerful  to  move  shame — even  contrition  and 
the  desire  of  amendment." 


A   TALK   WITH    CHARLEY.  287 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Charley  hastily.  "But  let  me  suppose 
further — aud,  perhaps  you  will  allow,  better — that  this  blue- 
ness — I  take  a  part  for  the  whole — belongs  essentially  and  of 
necessity  to  the  atmosphere,  itself  so  essential  to  our  physical 
life ;  suppose  also  that  this  blue  has  essential  relation  to  our 
spiritual  nature, — taking  for  the  moment  our  spiritual  nature 
for  granted, — suppose,  in  a  word,  all  nature  so  related,  not 
only  to  our  physical  but  to  our  spiritual  nature,  that  it  and 
we  form  an  organic  whole,  full  of  action  and  reaction  between 
the  parts — would  that  satisfy  you  ?  would  it  enable  you  to 
look  on  the  sky  this  night  with  absolute  pleasure?  w^ould  you 
want  nothing  more?" 

I  thought  for  a  little  before  I  answered. 

"  No,  Charley,"  I  said  at  last — "  it  would  not  satisfy  me. 
For  it  would  indicate  that  beauty  might  be  after  all  but  the 
projection  of  my  own  mind — the  name  I  gave  to  a  harmony 
between  that  around  me  and  that  within  me.  There  would 
then  be  nothing  absolute  in  beauty.  There  w^ould  be  no  such 
thing  in  itself.  It  would  exist  only  as  a  phase  of  me,  when  I 
was  in  a  certain  mood  ;  and  when  I  was  earthly-minded,  pas- 
sionate, or  troubled,  it  would  be  nowhere.  But  in  my  best 
moods  I  feel  that  in  nature  lies  the  form  and  fashion  of  a 
peace  and  grandeur  so  much  beyond  anything  in  me,  that  they 
rouse  the  sense  of  poverty  and  incompleteness  and  blame  in 
the  want  of  them." 

"  Do  you  perceive  whither  you  are  leading  yourself?" 

"  I  would  rather  hear  you  say." 

"  To  this  then — that  the  peace  and  grandeur  of  which  you 
speak  must  be  a  mere  accident,  therefore  an  unreality  and 
pure  appearance,  or  the  outcome  and  representation  of  a  peace 
and  grandeur  which,  not  to  be  found  in  us,  yet  exist,  and 
make  use  of  this  frame  of  things  to  set  forth  and  manifest 
themselves  in  order  that  we  may  recognize  and  desire  them." 

"  Granted — heartily." 

"  In  other  words — you  lead  yourself  inevitably  to  a  God 
manifest  in  nature — not  as  a  powerful  being — that  is  a  theme 
absolutely  without  interest  to  me — but  as  possessed  in  himself 


288  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE.   • 

of  the  original  pre-existeut  beauty,  the  counterpart  of  which 
in  us  we  call  art,  and  who  has  fasliioned  us  so  that  we  must 
fall  down  and  worship  the  image  of  himself  which  he  has 
set  up." 

"  That's  good,  Charley.  I'm  so  glad  you've  worked  that 
out!" 

"It  doesn't  in  the  least  follow  that  I  believe  it.  I  cannot 
even  say  I  wish  I  did : — for  what  I  know,  that  might  be  to 
wish  to  be  deceived.  Of  all  miseries — to  believe  in  a  lovely 
thiuir  and  find  it  not  true — that  must  be  the  worst." 

"  You  might  never  find  it  out,  though,"  I  said.  "  You 
might  be  able  to  comfort  yourself  with  it  all  your  life." 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  cried  fiercely.  "  Never  to  find  it  out 
would  be  the  hell  of  all  hells.  AYilfrid,  I  am  ashamed  of 
you!" 

"So  should  I  be,  Charley,  if  I  had  meant  it.  I  only 
wanted  to  make  you  speak.-  I  agree  with  you  entirely.  But 
I  do  wish  we  could  be  quite  sure  of  it ; — for  I  don't  believe 
any  man  can  ever  be  sui-e  of  a  thing  that  is  not  true." 

"  My  father  is  sure  that  the  love  of  nature  is  not  only  a 
delusion,  but  a  snare.  I  should  have  no  right  to  object,  were 
he  not  equally  sure  of  the  existence  of  a  God  who  created  and 
rules  it. — By  the  way,  if  I  believed  in  a  God,  I  should  say 
creates,  not  created. — I  told  him  once,  not  long  ago,  when  he 
fell  out  upon  nature — he  had  laid  hands  on  a  copy  of  Endy- 
mion  belonging  to  me — I  don't  know  how  the  devil  he  got  it — ■ 
I  asked  him  whether  he  thought  the  devil  made  the  world. 
You  should  have  seen  the  white  wrath  he  went  into  at  the 
question !  I  told  him  it  was  generally  believed  one  or  the 
other  did  make  the  world.  He  told  me  God  made  the  world, 
but  sin  had  unmade  it.  I  asked  him  if  it  was  sin  that  made 
it  so  beautiful.  He  said  it  was  sin  that  made  me  think  it  so 
beautiful.  I  remarked  how  very  ugly  it  must  have  looked 
when  God  had  just  finished  it !  He  called  me  a  blasphemer, 
and  walked  to  the  door.  I  stopped  him  for  a  moment  by  say- 
ing that  I  thought,  after  all,  he  must  be  right,  for  according 
to  geologists  the  world  must  have  been  a  horrible  place  and 


A   TALK   WITH   CHARLEY.  289 

full  of  the  most  hideous  creatures  before  sin  came  and  made  it 
lovely.  When  he  saw  my  drift,  he  strode  up  to  me  like — well, 
very  like  his  own  God,  I  should  think — and  was  going  to 
strike  me.  I  looked  him  in  the  eyes  without  moving,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  madman.  He  turned  and  left  the  room.  I  left 
the  house,  and  went  back  to  London  the  same  night." 

"  Oh,  Charley !  Charley !  that  was  too  bad !" 

"  I  knew  it,  Wilfrid,  and  yet  I  did  it !  But  if  your  father 
had  made  a  downright  coward  of  you,  afraid  to  speak  the 
truth,  or  show  what  you  were  thinking,  you  also  might  find 
that  when  anger  gave  you  a  fictitious  courage,  you  could  not 
help  breaking  out.  It's  only  another  form  of  cowardice,  I 
know ;  and  I  am  as  much  ashamed  of  it  as  you  could  w  ish  me 
to  be." 

"  Have  you  made  it  up  with  him  since  ?" 

"  I've  never  seen  him  since." 

"  Haven't  you  written,  then  ?" 

"No.  Where's  the  use?  He  never  would  understand  me. 
He  knows  no  more  of  the  condition  of  my  mind  than  he  does 
of  the  other  side  of  the  moon.  If  I  oflTered  such,  he  would 
put  aside  all  apology  for  my  behaviour  to  him — repudiating 
himself,  and  telling  me  it  was  the  wrath  of  an  offended  God, 
not  of  an  earthly  parent,  I  had  to  deprecate.  If  I  told  him 
I  had  only  spoken  against  his  false  God — how  far  would  that 
go  to  mend  the  matter,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Not  far,  I  must  allow.     But  I  am  very  sorry." 

"  I  wouldn't  care  if  I  could  be  sure  of  anything — or  even 
sure  that  if  I  were  sure,  I  shouldn't  be  mistaken." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  very  morbid,  Charley." 

"  Perhaps.  But  you  cannot  deny  that  my  father  is  sure  of 
things  that  you  believe  utterly  false." 

"  I  suspect,  however,  that  if  we  were  able  to  get  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  his  mind  and  all  its  workings,  we  should  discover  that 
what  he  called  assurance  was  not  the  condition  you  would  call 
such.     You  would  find  it  was  not  the  certainty  you  covet." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,  and  it  is  my  only  comfort.     But  I 
am  sick  of  the  whole  subject.     See  that  cloud ! — isn't  it  like 
19 


290  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Death  on  the  pale  horse?  What  fun  it  must  be  for  the 
cherubs,  on  such  a  night  as  this,  to  go  blowing  the  clouds  into 
fantastic  shapes  with  their  trumpet  cheeks." 

Assurance  was  ever  what  Charley  wanted,  and  unhappily 
the  sense  of  intellectual  insecurity  weakened  his  moral  action. 

Once  more  I  reveal  a  haunting  uneasiness  in  the  expression 
of  a  hope  that  the  ordered  character  of  the  conversation  I 
have  just  set  down  may  not  render  it  incredible  to  my  reader. 
I  record  the  result  alone.  The  talk  itself  was  far  more  desul- 
tory, and  in  consequence  of  questions,  objections,  and  explana- 
tions, divaricated  much  from  the  comparatively  direct  line  I 
have  endeavored  to  give  it  here.  In  the  hope  of  making  my 
readers  understand  both  Charley  and  myself,  1  have  sought  to 
make  the  winding  and  rough  path  straight  and  smooth. 


TAPESTRY.  291 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

TAPESTRY. 

Having  heard  what  I  was  about  at  the  Hall,  Charley 
expressed  a  desire  to  take  a  share  in  my  labors,  especially  as 
thereby  he  would  be  able  to  see  more  of  his  mother  and  sister. 
I  took  him  straight  to  the  book-rooms,  and  we  were  hard  at 
work  when  Clara  entered. 

"  Here  is  your  old  friend,  Charley  Osborne,"  I  said.  "  You 
remember  Miss  Coningham,  Charley,  I  know." 

He  advanced  in  what  seemed  a  strangely  embarrassed — 
indeed  rather  sheepish  manner,  altogether  unlike  his  usual 
bearing.  I  attributed  it  to  a  doubt  Avhether  Clara  would 
acknowledge  their  old  acquaintance.  On  her  part,  she  met 
him  with  some  frankness,  but  I  thought  also  a  rather  embar- 
rassed look,  which  was  the  more  surprising  as  I  had  let  her 
know  he  was  coming.  But  they  shook  hands,  and  in  a  little 
while  we  were  all  chatting  comfortably. 

"  Shall  I  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Osborne  you  are  here?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,"  said  Charley,  and  she  went. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Osborne  and  Mary  entered.  The 
meeting  was  full  of  affection,  but  to  my  eye  looked  like  a  meet- 
ing of  the  living  and  the  dead  in  a  dream — there  was  such  an 
evident  sadness  in  it,  as  if  each  was  dimly  aware  that  they  met 
but  in  appearance  and  were  in  reality  far  asunder.  I  could 
not  doubt  that  however  much  they  loved  him,  and  however 
little  they  sympathized  with  his  father's  treatment  of  him,  his 
mother  and  sister  yet  regarded  him  as  separated  from  them  by 
a  great  gulf — that  of  culpable  unbelief.  But  they  seemed 
therefore  only  the  more  anxious  to  please  and  serve  him — their 
anxiety  revealing  itself  in  an  eagerness  painfully  like  the  ser- 
vice offered  to  one  whom  the  doctors  have  given  up,  and  who 
may  now  have  any  indulgence  he  happens  to  ihiic y. 


232  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  say,  mother,"  said  Charley,  who  seemed  to  strive  after 
an  airier  maimer  eveu  than  usual — "  couldn't  you  come  and 
help  us  ?     It  would  be  so  jolly  !" 

"No,  my  dear;  I  mustn't  leave  Lady  Brotherton.  That 
would  be  rude,  you  know.     But  I  dare  say  Mary  might." 

"Oh,  please,  mamma!  I  should  like  it  so  much — especially 
if  Clara  would  stop !  But  perhaps  Mr.  Cumbermede — we 
ouglit  to  have  asked  him  first." 

"  Yes — to  be  sure — he's  the  foreman,"  said  Charley.  "  But 
he's  not  a  bad  fellow,  and  won't  be  disobliging.  Only  you 
must  do  as  he  tells  you,  or  it'll  be  the  worse  for  us  all.  I 
know  him." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  I  said.  "  I  can  give  both  the  ladies 
plenty  to  do.  Indeed  I  regard  Miss  Coningham  as  one  of  my 
hands  already.  Won't  Miss  Brotherton  honor  us  to-day,  Miss 
Coningham  ?" 

"  I  will  go  and  ask  her,"  said  Clara. 

They  all  withdrew.  In  a  little  while  I  had  four  assistants, 
and  we  got  on  famously.  The  carpenter  had  been  hard  at 
work,  and  the  room  next  the  armory,  the  oak-paneling  of 
which  had  shown  considerable  signs  of  decay,  had  been 
repaired,  and  the  shelves,  which  were  in  tolerable  condition, 
were  now  ready  to  receive  their  burden,  and  reflect  the  first 
rays  of  a  dawning  order. 

Plenty  of  talk  went  on  during  the  dusting  and  arranging 
of  the  books  by  their  size,  which  was  the  first  step  towards  a 
cosmos.  There  was  a  certain  playful  naivete  about  Charley's 
manner  .and  speech  when  he  w^as  happy  w  hich  gave  him  an 
instant  advantage  with  women,  and  even  made  the  impression 
of  wit  where  there  was  only  grace.  Although  he  was  per- 
fectly capa1)le,  however  of  engaging  to  any  extent  in  the 
badinage  which  has  ever  been  in  place  between  young  men 
and  women  since  dawning  humanity  was  first  aware  of  a 
lovely  difference,  there  was  always  a  certain  indescribable 
dignity  about  what  he  said  which  I  now  see  could  have  come 
only  from  a  believing  heart.  I  use  the  word  advisedly,  but 
would  rather  my  reader  should  find  what  I  mean  than  require 


TAPESTRY.  293 

me  to  explain  it  fully.  Belief  to  my  mind  lies  chiefly  in  the 
practical  recognition  of  the  high  and  pure. 

Miss  Brotherton  looked  considerably  puzzled  sometimes,  and 
indeed  out  of  her  element.  But  her  dignity  had  no  chance 
with  so  many  young  people,  and  was  compelled  to  thaw 
visibly ;  and  while  growing  more  friendly  with  the  others, 
she  could  not  avoid  unbending  towards  me  also,  notwithstand- 
ing I  was  a  neighbor  and  the  sou  of  a  dairy-farmer. 

Mary  Osborne  took  little  part  in  the  fun  beyond  a  smile,  or 
in  the  more  solid  conversation  beyond  an  assent  or  an  or- 
dinary remark.  I  did  not  find  her  very  interesting.  An  on- 
looker would  probably  have  said  she  lacked  expression.  But 
the  stillness  upon  her  face  bore  to  me  the  shadow  of  a  reproof. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  a  want  of 'sympathy  with  what  was  going 
on  around  her.  Perhaps  her  soul  was  either  far  withdrawn 
from  its  present  circumstances,  or  not  yet  awake  to  the 
general  interests  of  life.  There  was  little  in  the  form  or  hue 
of  her  countenance  to  move  admiration,  beyond  a  complexion 
without  spot.  It  was  very  fair  and  delicate,  with  little  more 
color  in  it  than  in  the  white  rose,  which  but  the  faintest 
warmth  redeems  from  dead  whiteness.  Her  features  were 
good  in  form,  but  in  no  way  remarkable ;  her  eyes  were  of  the 
so-called  •  hazel,  which  consists  of  a  mingling  of  brown  and 
green ;  her  JSgure  was  good  but  seemed  unelastic,  and  she  had 
nothing  of  her  brother's  gayety  or  grace  of  movement  or  ex- 
pression. I  do  not  mean  that  either  her  motions  or  her  speech 
were  clumsy — there  was  simply  nothing  to  remark  in  them 
beyond  the  absence  of  anything  special.  In  a  word,  I  did 
not  find  her  interesting,  save  as  the  sister  of  my  delight- 
ful Charley,  and  the  sharer  of  his  mother's  griefs  concerning 
him. 

"  If  I  had  as  good  help  in  the  afternoon,"  I  said,  "  we 
should  have  all  the  books  on  the  shelves  to-night,  and  be  able 
to  set  about  assorting  them  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  come  this  afternoon,"  said  Miss  Bro- 
therton. "  I  should  have  been  most  happy  if  I  could.  It  is 
really  very  pleasant — notwithstanding    the   dust.     But  Mrs. 


294  WILFUID   CUMBEllMEDE. 

Osborue  aud  mamma  \vaut  me  to  go  with  them  to  Minster- 
coinbe.  You  will  lunch  with  us  to-day,  won't  you?"  she 
addcH.1,  turning  to  Charley. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Brotherton,"  he  replied ;  "  I  should 
have  been  delighted,  but  I  am  not  my  own  master — I  am 
Cumbermede's  slave  at  present,  and  caa  eat  and  drink  only 
when  and  where  he  chooses." 

"You  must  stay  with  your  mother,  Charley,"  I  said.  "You 
cannot  refuse  Miss  Brotherton." 

She  could  thereupon  scarcely  avoid  extending  the  invitation 
to  me,  but  I  declined  it  on  some  pretext  or  other,  and  I  was 
again,  thanks  to  Lilith,  back  from  my  dinner  before  they  had 
finished  luncheon.  The  carriage  was  at  the  door  when  I  rode 
up,  and  the  moment  I  heard  it  drive  away,  I  went  to  the 
dining-room  to  find  my  coadjutors.  The  only  person  there 
was  Miss  Pease.     A  thought  struck  me. 

"  Won't  you  come  and  help  us,  Miss  Pease?"  I  said.  "I 
have  lost  one  of  my  assistants,  and  I  am  very  anxious  to  get 
the  room  we  are  at  now  so  far  finished  to-night." 

A  smile  found  its  way  to  her  cold  eyes,  and  set  the  blue 
sparkling  for  one  briefest  moment. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Cumbermede,  but " 

"  Kind !"  I  exclaimed — "  I  want  your  help.  Miss  Pease." 

"  I'm  afraid " 

"'  Lady  Brotherton  can't  want  you  now.  Do  oblige  me. 
You  will  find  it  fun." 

She  smiled  outright — evidently  at  the  fancy  of  any  relation 
between  her  and  fun. 

"  Do  go  and  put  a  cap  on,  and  a  cotton  dress,  and  come," 
I  persisted. 

Without  another  word  she  left  the  room.  I  was  still  alone 
in  the  library  when  she  came  to  me,  and  having  show^n  her 
what  I  wanted,  we  were  already  busy  wdien  the  rest  arrived, 

"  O  Peasey  !  Are  you  there  ?"  said  Clara,  as  she  entered 
— not  unkindly. 

"  I  have  got  a  substitute  for  Miss  Brotherton,  you  see,  Clara 
— Miss  Coningham — I  beg  your  pardon." 


TAPESTRY.  295 

"  There's  no  occasion  to  beg  my  pardon.  AVhy  sliouldn't 
you  call  me  Clara  if  you  like  ?     It  is  my  name." 

"  Charley  might  be  taking  the  same  liberty,"  I  returned, 
extemporizing  a  reason. 

"  And  why  shouldn't  Charley  take  the  same  liberty  ?"  she 
retorted. 

"  For  no  reason  that  I  know,"  I  answered,  a  trifle  hurt,  "  if 
it  be  agreeable  to  the  lady." 

"  And  the  gentleman,"  she  amended. 

"  And  the  gentleman,"  I  added. 

"  Very  well.  Then  w^e  are  all  good  boys  and  girls.  Now 
Peasey,  I'm  very  glad  you're  come.  Only  mind  you  get  back 
to  your  place  before  the  ogress  returns,  or  you'll  have  your 
head  snapped  off*." 

Was  I  right,  or  was  it  the  result  of  the  slight  offence  I  had 
taken  ?  Was  she  the  gracious,  graceful,  naive,  playful,  daring 
woman — or  could  she  be — or  had  she  been  just  the  least  little 
bit  vulgar  ?  I  am  afraid  I  was  then  more  sensitive  to 
vulgarity  in  a  woman,  real  or  fancied,  than  even  to  wicked- 
ness— at  least  I  thought  I  was.  At  all  events,  the  first  con- 
viction of  anything  common  or  unrefined  in  a  woman  would 
at  once  have  placed  me  beyond  the  sphere  of  her  attraction. 
But  I  had  no  time  to  think  the  suggestion  over  now  ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes — whether  she  saw  the  cloud  on  my  face  I  cannot 
tell — Clara  had  given  me  a  look  and  a  smile  which  banished 
the  possibility  of  my  thinking  about  it  for  the  present. 

Miss  Pease  worked  more  diligently  than  any  of  the  party. 
She  seldom  spoke,  and  when  she  did,  it  was  in  a  gentle,  sub- 
dued, almost  mournful  tone ;  but  the  company  of  the  young 
people  without  the  restraint  of  her  mistress  was  evidently 
grateful  to  what  of  youth  yet  remained  in  her  oppressed  being. 

Before  it  was  dark  we  had  got  the  books  all  upon  the 
shelves,  and  leaving  Charley  with  the  ladies,  I  walked  home. 

I  found  Styles  had  got  everything  out  of  the  lumber-room 
except  a  heavy  oak  chest  in  the  corner,  which,  our  united 
strength  being  insufficient  to  displace  it,  I  concluded  was  fixed 
to  the  floor.     I  collected  all  tlie  keys  my  aunt  had  left  behind 


296  WILFRID    CUMBERMEDE. 

hsr,  but  sought  the  key  of  this  chest  in  vain.  For  my  uncle, 
I  never  saw  a  key  in  his  possession.  Even  what  little  money 
he  might  have  in  the  house,  was  only  put  away  at  the  back 
of  an  ()i)en  drawer.  For  the  present,  therefore,  we  had  to 
leave  it  undisturbed. 

When  Charley  came  home,  we  went  to  look  at  .:  togethe?-. 
It  was  of  oak,  and  somewhat  elaborately  carved. 

I  was  yery  restless  in  bed  that  night.  The  air  was  close 
and  hot,  and  as  often  as  I  dropped  half  asleep  I  awoke  again 
with  a  start.  My  thoughts  kept  stupidly  running  on  the  old 
chest.  It  had  mechanically  possessed  me.  I  felt  no  disturb- 
ing curiosity  concerning  its  contents ;  I  was  not  annoyed  at 
the  want  of  the  key :  it  was  only  that,  like  a  nursery  rhyme 
that  keeps  repeating  itself  over  and  over  in  the  half-sleeping 
brain,  this  chest  kept  rising  before  me  till  I  was  out  of 
patience  with  its  intrusiveness.  It  brought  me  wide  awake  at 
last ;  and  I  thought,  as  I  could  not  sleep,  I  would  have  a 
search  for  the  key.  I  got  out  of  bed,  put  on  my  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  lighted  my  chamber  candle,  and  made  an 
inroad  upon  the  contents  of  the  closet  in  my  room,  which  had 
apparently  remained  undisturbed  since  the  morning  when  I 
missed  my  watch.  I  believe  I  had  never  entered  it  since. 
Almost  the  first  thing  I  came  upon  was  the  pendulum,  which 
woke  a  strange  sensation  for  which  I  could  not  account,  until 
by  slow  degrees  the  twilight  memory  of  the  incidents  con- 
nected wdth  it  half  dawned  upon  me.  I  searched  the  whole 
place,  but  not  a  key  could  I  find. 

I  started  violently  at  the  sound  of  something  like  a  groan, 
and  for  the  briefest  imaginable  moment  forgot  that  my  grannie 
was  dead,  and  thought  it  must  come  from  her  room.  It  may 
be  remembered  that  such  a  sound  had  led  me  to  her  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  on  which  she  died.  AVhether  I  really 
heard  the  sound,  or  only  fancied  I  heard  it — by  some  half  me- 
chanical action  of  the  brain,  roused  by  the  association  of  ideas 
— I  do  not  even  yet  know.  It  may  have  been  changed  or 
expanded  into  a  groan,  from  one  of  those  innumerable  sounds 
heard  in  every  old  house  in  the  stillness  of  the  night ;  for  such. 


TAPESTRY.  297 

m  the  absence  of  the  correction  given  by  other  sounds,  assume 
place  and  proportion  as  it  were  at  their  pleasure.  What  lady- 
has  not  at  midnight  mistaken  the  trail  of  her  own  dress  on  the 
carpet,  in  a  silent  house,  for  some  tumult  in  a  distant  room  ? 
Curious  to  say,  however,  it  now  led  to  the  same  action  as  the 
groan  I  had  heard  so  many  years  before ;  for  I  caught  up  my 
candle  at  once,  and  took  my  way  down  to  the  kitchen,  and  up 
the  winding  stair  behind  the  chimney  to  grannie's  room. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  had  not  been  in  it  since  my  return ; 
for  my  thoughts  had  been  so  entirely  occupied  with  other 
things,  that,  although  I  now  and  then  looked  forward  with 
considerable  expectation  to  a  thorough  search  of  the  place, 
especially  of  the  bureau,  I  kept  it  up  as  a  honne  houche,  the 
anticipation  of  which  was  consolation  enough  for  the  post- 
ponement. 

I  confess  it  was  with  no  little  quavering  of  the  spirit  that  I 
sought  this  chamber  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  For,  by  its 
association  with  one  who  had  from  my  earliest  recollection 
seemed  like  something  forgotten  and  left  behind  in  the  onward 
rush  of  life,  it  was,  far  more  than  anything  else  in  the  house, 
like  a  piece  of  the  past  embedded  in  the  present — a  fragment 
that  had  been,  by  some  eddy  in  the  stream  of  time,  prevented 
from  gliding  away  down  its  course,  and  left  to  lie  forever  in  a 
cranny  of  the  solid  shore  of  unmoving  space.  But  although 
subject  to  more  than  the  ordinary  tremor  at  the  thought  of 
unknown  and  invisible  presences,  I  must  say  for  myself  that  I 
had  never  yielded  so  far  as  to  allow  such  tremor  to  govern  my 
actions.  Even  in  my  dreams  I  have  resisted  ghostly  terrors, 
and  can  recall  one  in  which  I  so  far  conquered  a  lady  ghost 
who  took  every  means  of  overcoming  me  with  terror,  that  at 
length  she  fell  in  love  with  me,  whereupon  my  fear  vanished 
utterly — a  conceited  fancy,  and  as  such  let  it  fare. 

I  opened  the  door  then  with  some  trembling,  half  expecting 
to  see  first  the  white  of  my  grannie's  cap  against  the  tall  back 
of  her  dark  chair.  But  my  senses  were  sound,  and  no  such 
illusion  seized  me.  All  was  empty,  cheerless  and  musty. 
Grannie's  bed,  with  its  v/hite  curtains,  looked  as  if  it  were 


208  WILFPwID   CUMBERMEDE. 

jnouldering  away  after  her.  The  dust  lay  thick  on  the  couu- 
ler])aue  of  patchwork  silk.  The  bureau  stood  silent  with  all 
its  secrets.  In  the  fireplace  was  the  same  brusfhwood  and  coals 
which  Nannie  laid  the  morning  of  grannie's  death :  inter- 
rupted by  the  discovery  of  my  presence,  she  had  left  it,  and 
that  fire  had  never  been  lighted.  Half  for  the  sake  of  com- 
panionship, half  because  the  air  felt  sepulchral  and  I  was 
thinly  clad,  I  put  my  candle  to  it  and  it  blazed  up.  My 
courage  revived,  and  after  a  little  more  gazing  about  the 
room,  I  ventured  to  sit  down  in  my  grannie's  chair  and  watch 
the  growing  fire.  Warned  however  by  the  shortness  of  my 
candle,  I  soon  rose  to  proceed  with  my  search,  and  turned  to- 
wards the  bureau. 

Here,  however,  the  same  difficulty  occurred.  The  top  of 
the  bureau  was  locked  as  when  I  had  last  tried  it,  and  not  one 
of  my  keys  would  fit  it.  At  a  loss  what  to  do  or  where  to  search, 
I  dropped  again  into  the  chair  by  the  fire,  and  my  eyes  went 
roving  about  the  room.  They  fell  upon  a  black  dress  which 
hung  against  the  wall.  At  the  same  moment  I  remembered 
that  when  she  gave  me  the  watch,  she  took  the  keys  of  the 
bureau  from  her  pocket.  I  went  to  the  dress  and  found  a 
pocket,  not  indeed  in  the  dress,  but  hanging  under  it  from  the 
same  peg.  There  her  keys  were!  It  would  have  been  a 
marvel  to  me  how  my  aunt  came  to  leave  them  undisturbed 
all  those  years,  but  for  the  instant  suggestion  that  my  uncle 
must  have  expressed  a  wish  to  that  effect.  With  eager  hand 
I  opened  the  bureau.  Besides  many  trinkets  in  the  drawers, 
some  of  them  of  exceedingly  antique  form,  and,  I  fancied  of 
considerable  value,  I  found  in  the  pigeon-holes  what  I  was  far 
more  pleased  to  discover — a  good  many  letters,  carefnlly  tied 
in  small  bundles,  with  ribbon  which  had  lost  all  determinable 
color.  These  I  resolved  to  take  an  early  opportunity  of  read- 
ing, but  replaced  for  the  present,  and,  having  come  at  last 
upon  one  hopeful  looking  key,  I  made  haste  to  return  before 
my  candle,  which  was  already  flickering  in  the  socket, 
should  go  out  altogether,  and  leave  me  darkling.  When 
I  reached   the  kitchen,  however.   I  found  the  gray   dawn 


TAPESTRY.  299 

already  breaking.     I  retired  once  more  to  my  chamber,  and 
was  soon  fast  asleep. 

In  the  morning,  my  first  care  was  to  try  the  key.  It  fitted. 
I  oiled  it  well,  and  then  tried  the  lock.  I  had  to  use  consid- 
erable force,  but  at  last  there  came  a  great  clang  that  echoed 
through  the  empty  room.  When  I  raised  the  lid,  I  knew  by 
the  weight  it  was  of  iron.  In  fact,  the  whole  chest  was  iron  with 
a  casing  of  oak.  The  lock  threw  eight  bolts,  which  laid  hold 
of  a  rim  that  ran  all  around  the  lip  of  the  chest.  It  was  full 
of  "  very  ancient  and  fish-like  "  papers  and  parchments.  I  do 
not  know  whether  my  father  or  grandfather  had  ever  dis- 
turbed them,  but  I  am  certain  my  uncle  never  had,  for  as  far 
back  as  I  can  remember,  the  part  of  the  room  where  it  stood 
was  filled  with  what  had  been,  at  one  time  and  another,  con- 
demned as  lumber. 

Charley  was  intensely  interested  in  the  discovery,  and 
would  have  sat  down  at  once  to  examine  the  contents  of  the 
chest,  had  I  not  persuaded  him  to  leave  them  till  the  after- 
noon, that  we  might  get  on  with  our  work  at  the  Hall. 

The  second  room  was  now  ready  for  the  carpenter,  but, 
having  had  a  peep  of  tapestry  behind  the  shelves,  a  new 
thought  had  struck  me.  If  it  was  in  good  preservation,  it 
would  be  out  of  the  question  to  hide  it  behind  books. 

I  fear  I  am  getting  tedious.  My  apology  for  diffuseness  in 
this  part  of  my  narrative  is  that  some  threads  of  the  fringe  of 
my  own  fate  show  every  now  and  then  in  the  record  of  these 
proceedings.  I  confess  also  that  I  hang  back  from  certain 
things  which  are  pressing  nearer  with  their  claim  for  record. 

When  we  reached  the  Hall,  I  took  the  carpenter  with  me, 
and  had  the  book-shelves  taken  down.  To  my  disappoint- 
ment we  found  that  an  oblong  piece  of  some  size  was  missing 
from  the  centre  of  the  tapestry  on  one  of  the  walls.  That 
which  covered  the  rest  of  the  room  was  entire.  It  was  all  of 
good  Gobelin  work — somewhat  tame  in  color.  The  damaged 
portion  represented  a  wooded  landscape,  with  water  and  reedy 
flowers  and  aquatic  fowl,  towards  which  in  the  distance  came 
a  hunter  with  a  crossbow  in  his  hand,  and  a  queer  lurcher- 


300  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

looking  dog  bounding  imcouthly  at  his  heels:  the  edge  of  the 
vacant  space  cut  off  the  dog's  tail  and  the  top  of  the  man's 
crossbow. 

I  went  to  find  Sir  Giles.  He  was  in  the  dining-room,  where 
they  had  just  finished  breakfast. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Cunibermcde !"  he  said,  rising  as  I  entered,  and 
holding  out  his  hand — "here  already  ?" 

"  We  have  uncovered  some  tapestry,  Sir  Giles,  and  I  want 
you  to  come  and  look  at  it,  if  you  please." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered.  "  Would  any  of  you  ladies  like  to 
go  and  see  it  ?" 

His  daughter  and  Clara  rose.  Lady  Brotherton  and  Mi-s. 
Osborne  sat  still.  Mary,  glancing  at  her  mother,  remained 
seated  also. 

"Won't  you  come.  Miss  Pease?"  I  said. 

She  looked  almost  alarmed  at  the  audacity  of  the  proposal, 
and  murmured,  "  No,  thank  you,"  with  a  glance  at  Lady  Broth- 
erton, which  appeared  as  involuntary,  as  it  was  timid. 

"  Is  my  son  with  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Osborne. 

I  told  her  he  was. 

"  I  shall  look  in  upon  you  before  the  morning  is  over,"  she 
said  quietly. 

They  were  all  pleased  with  the  tapestry,  and  the  ladies  of- 
fered several  conjectures  as  to  the  cause  of  the  mutilation. 

"  It  would  be  a  shame  to  cover  it  up  again — would  it  not, 
Sir  Giles  ?"  I  remarked. 

"  Indeed  it  would,"  he  assented. 

"  If  it  weren't  for  that  broken  piece,"  said  Clara.  "  That 
spoils  it  altogether.  /  should  have  the  books  up  again  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"  It  does  look  shabby,"  said  Charley.  "  I  can't  say  I  should 
enjoy  having  anything  so  defective  always  before  my  eyes." 

"  We  must  have  it  taken  down  very  carefully,  Hobbes,"  said 
Sir  Giles,  turning  to  the  carpenter. 

"  3Iust  it  come  down.  Sir  Giles  ?"  I  interposed.  "  I  think 
it  would  be  risky.  No  one  knows  how  long  it  has  been  there, 
and  though  it  might  hang  where  it  is  for  a  century  yet,  and 


TAPESTRY.  301 

look  nothing  the  worse,  it  can't  be  strong,  and  at  best  we  could 
not  get  it  down  without  some  injury,  while  it  is  a  great  chance 
if  it  would  fit  any  other  place  half  as  well." 

"  What  do  you  propose,  then  ?" 

"  This  is  the  largest  room  of  the  six,  and  the  best  lighted — 
with  that  lovely  oriel  window;  I  would  venture  to  propose, 
Sir  Giles,  that  it  should  be  left  clear  of  books  and  fitted  up 
as  a  reading-room." 

"  But  how  would  you  deal  with  that  frightful  lacuna  in  the 
tapestry  ?"  said  Charley. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Giles ;  "  it  won't  look  handsome,  I  fear — do 
what  you  will." 

"  I  think  I  know  how  to  manage  it,"  I  said.  "  If  I  succeed 
to  your  satisfaction,  will  you  allow  me  to  carry  out  the  project?" 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  with  the  books  then  ?  We  shan't 
have  room  for  them." 

"  Couldn't  you  let  me  have  the  next  room  beyond  ?" 

"  You  mean  to  turn  me  out,  I  suppose,"  said  Clara. 

"  Is  there  tapestry  on  your  walls  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  a  thread — all  wainscot — painted." 

"  Then  your  room  would  be  the  very  thing !" 

"  It  is  much  larger  than  any  of  these,"  she  said. 

"  Then  do  let  us  have  it  for  the  library.  Sir  Giles,"  I  en- 
treated. 

"  I  will  see  what  Lady  Brotherton  says,"  he  replied,  and 
left  the  room. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  heard  his  step  returning. 

"Lady  Brotherton  has  no  particular  objection  to  giving  up 
the  room  you  want,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  see  Mrs.  Wilson, 
Clara,  and  arrange  with  her  for  your  accommodation  ?" 

"  With  pleasure.  I  don't  mind  where  I  am  put — except  it 
be  in  Lord  Edward's  room — w^hcre  the  ghost  is." 

"  You  mean  the  one  next  to  ours  ?  There  is  no  ghost  there, 
I  assure  you,"  said  Sir  Giles,  laughing,  as  he  again  left  the 
room  with  short,  heavy  steps. — "Manage  it  all  to  your  own 
mind,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  I  shall  be  satisfied,"  he  called  back 
as  he  weoit. 


302  WILFRID  CUMJiEKMEDE. 

"Until  further  notice,"  I  said  ^vitli  grandiloquence,  "I  re- 
quest that  no  one  may  come  into  this  room.  If  you  are  kind 
enough  to  assort  the  books  we  put  up  yesterday,  oblige  me  by 
going  through  the  armory.     I  must  find  Mrs.  Wilson." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Clai-a.  "  I  wonder  where  the  old 
thing  will  want  to  put  me.  I'm  not  going  where  I  don't  like, 
I  can  tell  her,"  she  added,  following  me  down  the  stair  and 
across  the  hall  and  the  court. 

We  found  the  housekeeper  in  her  room.  I  accosted  her  in 
a  friendly  way.     She  made  but  a  bare  response. 

"  Would  you  kindly  show  me  where  I  slept  that  night  I 
lost  my  sword,  Mrs.  Wilson  ?"  I  said. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  your  sword,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  she 
answered,  shaking  her  head  and  pursing  up  her  mouth. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  anything  about  it,  Mrs.  Wilson ;  J  only 
ask  you  where  I  slept  the  night  I  lost  it." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Cumbermede,  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to 
remember  in  what  room  a  visitor  slept — let  me  see — it  must 
be  twelve  or  fifteen  years  ago  !     I  do  not  take  it  upon  me." 

"  Oh  !  never  mind  then.  I  referred  to  the  circumstances  of 
that  night,  thinking  they  might  help  you  to  remember  the 
room  ;  but  it  is  of  no  consequence ;  I  shall  find  it  for  myself. 
Miss  Coningham  will,  I  hope,  help  me  in  the  search.  She 
knows  the  house  better  than  I  do." 

"  I  must  attend  to  my  own  business  first,  if  you  please,  sir," 
said  Clara.  "  Mrs.  Wilson,  I  am  ordered  out  of  my  room  by 
Mr.  Cumbermede.  You  must  find  me  fresh  quarters,  if  you 
please." 

Mrs.  Wilson  stared. 

"  Do  you  mean,  miss,  that  you  want  your  things  moved  to 
another  bed-room  ?" 

"  That  is  what  I  mean,  Mrs.  Wilson." 

"  I  must  see  what  Lady  Brotherton  says  to  it,  miss." 

"  Do,  by  all  means." 

I  saw  that  Clara  was  bent  on  annoying  her  old  enemy,  and 
interposed. 

"  Sir  Giles  and  Lady  Brotherton  have  agreed  to  let  me  have 


TAPESTRY.  303 

Miss  Coningham's  room  for  an  addition  to  the  library,  Mrs. 
Wilson,"  I  said. 

She  looked  very  grim,  but  made  no  answer.  We  turned 
and  left  her.  She  stood  lor  a  moment  as  if  thinking,  and 
then,  taking  down  her  bunch  of  keys,  followed  us. 

"If  you  will  come  this  way,"  she  said,  stopping  just  behind 
us  at  another  door  in  the  court,  "  I  think  I  can  show  you  the 
room  you  want.  But  really,  Mr.  Cumbermede,  you  are  turn- 
ing the  place  upside  down.  If  I  had  thought  it  would  come 
to  this " 

"  I  hope  to  do  so  a  little  more  yet,  Mrs.  Wilson,"  I  inter- 
rupted.    "  But  I  am  sure  you  will  be  pleased  with  the  result." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  led  the  way  up  a  stair,  across  the 
little  open  gallery,  and  by  passages  I  did  not  remember  to  the 
room  I  wanted.  It  was  in  precisely  the  same  condition  as 
when  I  occupied  it. 

"  This  is  the  room,  I  believe,"  she  said,  as  she  unlocked  and 
threw  open  the  door.  "Perhaps  it  would  suit  you,  Miss 
Coningham  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  answered  Clara.  "  Who  knows  which  of 
my  small  possessions  might  vanish  before  the  morning  ?" 

The  housekeeper's  face  grew  turkey-red  with  indignation. 

"  Mr.  Cumbermede  has  been  filling  your  head  with  some  of 
his  romances,  I  see.  Miss  Clara !" 

I  laughed,  for  I  did  not  care  to  show  myself  offended  with 
her  rudeness. 

"  Never  you  mind,"  said  Clara ;  "  I  am  not  going  to  sleep 
there." 

"Very  good,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  a  tone  of  offence  severely 
restrained. 

"  Will  you  show  me  the  way  to  the  library  ?"  I  requested. 

"  I  will,"  said  Clara.  "  I  know  it  as  well  as  Mrs.  Wilson — 
every  bit." 

"  Then  that  is  all  I  want  at  present,  Mrs.  Wilson,"  I  said, 
as  we  came  out  of  the  room.  "  Don't  lock  tlie  door  though, 
please,"  I  added.     "  Or,  if  you  do,  give  me  the  key." 

She  left  the  door  open,  and  us  in  the  passage.     Clara  led 


oO-l  WILFKID    CUMBERMEDE. 

me  to  the  libriiry.  There  we  foimd  Charley  waituig  our 
return. 

*'  Will  you  take  that  little  boy  to  his  mother,  Clara  ?"  I 
said.  "  I  duu't  waut  him  here  to-day.  We'll  have  a  look 
over  those  papers  in  tlie  evening,  Charley." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Clara.  "  I  hope  Charley  will  help  you 
to  a  little  rational  interest  iu  your  own  affairs.  I  am  quite 
bewildered  to  think  that  an  author,  not  to  say  a  young  man, 
the  sole  remnant  of  an  ancient  family,  however  humble, 
shouldn't  even  know  whether  he  had  any  papers  in  the  house 
or  not." 

"  We've  come  upon  such  a  glorious  nest  of  such  addled  eggs, 
Clara.    Charley  and  I  are  going  to  blow  them  to-night,"  I  said. 

"  You  never  know  when  such  eggs  are  addled,"  retorted 
Clara.  "  You'd  better  put  them  under  some  sensible  fowl  or 
other  first,"  she  added,  looking  back  from  the  door  as  they 
went. 

I  turned  to  the  carpenter's  tool  basket,  and  taking  from  it 
an  old  chisel,  a  screw-driver,  and  a  pair  of  pincers,  went  back 
to  the  room  we  had  just  left. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  There  was  the  tip  of 
the  dog's  tail,  and  the  top  of  the  hunter's  crossbow. 

But  my  reader  may  not  have  retained  in  her  memory  the 
facts  to  which  I  implicitly  refer.  I  would  therefore,  to  spare 
repetition,  beg  her  to  look  back  to  Chapter  XIV.,  containing 
the  account  of  the  loss  of  my  sword. 

In  the  consternation  caused  me  by  the  discovery  that  this 
loss  was  no  dream  of  the  night,  I  had  never  thought  of  exam- 
ining the  wall  of  the  chamber  to  see  whether  there  was  in  it 
a  door  or  not ;  but  I  sslw  now  at  once  plainly  enough  that 
the  inserted  patch  did  cover  a  small  door.  Opening  it,  I  found 
within,  a  creaking  wooden  .stair,  leading  up  to  another  low 
door,  which,  fashioned  like  the  door  of  a  companion,  opened 
upon  the  roof: — nowhere,  except  in  the  towers,  had  the  Hall 
more  than  two  stories.  As  soon  as  I  had  drawn  back  the  bolt 
and  stepped  out,  I  found  myself  standing  at  the  foot  of  an 
ornate  st-ack  of  chimneys,  and  remembered  quite  well  having 


TAPESTRY.  305 

tried  the  door  that  night  Clara  and  I  were  shut  out  on  the 
leads — the  same  night  on  which  my  sword  was  stolen. 

For  the  first  time  the  question  now  rose  in  my  mind  whether 
Mrs.  Wilson  could  have  been  in  league  with  Mr.  Close.  Was 
it  likely  I  should  have  been  placed  in  a  room  so  entirely  fitted 
to  his  purposes  by  accident  ?  But  I  could  not  imagine  any 
respectable  woman  running  such  a  risk  of  terrifymg  a  child 
out  of  his  senses,  even  if  she  could  have  connived  at  his  being 
robbed  of  what  she  might  well  judge  unsuitable  for  his  posses- 
sion. Descending  again  to  the  bed-room,  I  set  to  work  with 
my  tools.  The  utmost  care  was  necessary,  for  the  threads  were 
weak  with  old  age.  I  had  only  one  or  two  slight  mishaps,  how- 
ever, succeeding  on  the  whole  better  than  I  had  expected. 
Leaving  the  door  denuded  of  its  covering,  I  took  the  patch  on 
my  arm,  and  again  sought  the  library.  Hobbes's  surprise,  and 
indeed  pleasure,  when  he  saw  that  my  plunder  not  only  fitted 
the  gap,  but  completed  the  design,  was  great.  I  directed  him 
to  get  the  whole  piece  down  as  carefully  as  he  could,  and  went 
to  extract,  if  possible,  a  favor  from  Lady  Brotherton. 

She  was  of  course  very  stifi"— no  doubt  she  would  have  called 
it  dignified ,  but  I  did  all  I  could  to  please  her,  and  perhaps 
in  some  small  measure  succeeded.  After  representing,  amongst 
other  advantages,  what  an  addition  a  suite  of  rooms  filled  with 
a  valuable  library  must  be  to  the  capacity  of  the  house  for  the 
reception  and  entertainment  of  guests,  I  ventured  at  last  to 
beg  the  services  of  Miss  Pease  for  the  repair  of  a  bit  of  the 
tapestry. 

She  rang  the  bell,  sent  for  Miss  Pease,  and  ordered  her,  in  a 
style  of  the  coldest  arrogance,  to  put  herself  under  my  direc- 
tion. She  followed  me  to  the  door  in  the  meekest  manner,  but 
declined  the  arm  I  offered.  As  we  went  I  explained  what  I 
wanted,  saying  I  could  not  trust  it  to  any  hands  but  those  of  a 
lady,  expressing  a  hope  that  she  would  not  think  I  had  taken 
too  great  a  liberty,  and  begging  her  to  say  nothing  about  the 
work  itself,  as  I  wished  to  surprise  Sir  Giles  and  my  assistants. 
She  said  she  would  be  most  happy  to  help  me,  but  when  she 
saw  how  much  was  wanted,  she  did  look  a  little  dismayed. 
20 


30G  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

She  went  and  fetched  her  work-basket  at  once,  however,  and 
set  about  it,  tackin<^  the  edges  to  a  strip  of  canvas,  in  prepara- 
tion for  some  kind  uf  darning,  which  would  not,  she  hoped,  be 
unsightly. 

For  a  whole  week  she  and  the  carpenter  were  the  only  per- 
sons I  admitted,  and  while  she  gave  to  her  darning  every  mo- 
ment she  could  redeem  from  her  attendance  on  Lady  Brother- 
ton,  the  carpenter  and  I  were  busy, — he  cleaning  and  polish- 
ing, and  1  ranging  the  more  deserted  parts  of  the  house  to  find 
furniture  suitable  for  our  purpose.  In  Clara's  room  was  an 
old  Turkey  carpet  which  we  appropriated,  and  when  we  had 
the  tapestry  up  again,  which  Miss  Pease  had  at  length  restored 
iiiua  marvelous  manner— surpassing  my  best  hopes,  and  more 
like  healing  than  repairing, — the  place  was  to  my  eyes  a  very 
nest  of  dusky  harmoniea. 


THE  OLD  CHEST.  307 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

THE  OLD  CHEST. 

I  CANNOT  help  dwelling  for  a  moment  on  the  scene,  although 
it  is  not  of  the  slightest  consequence  to  my  story,  when  Sir 
Giles  and  Lady  Brotherton  entered  the  reading-room  of  the 
resuscitated  library  of  Moldwarp  Hall.  It  was  a  bright  day 
of  autumn.  Outside  all  w^as  brilliant.  The  latticed  oriel 
looked  over  the  lawn  and  the  park,  where  the  trees  had  begun 
to  gather  those  rich  hues  which  could  hardly  be  the  heralds 
of  death  if  it  were  the  ugly  thing  it  appears.  Beyond  the 
fading  woods  rose  a  line  of  blue  heights  meeting  the  more 
ethereal  blue  of  the  sky,  now  faded  to  a  colder  and  paler  tint. 
The  dappled  skins  of  the  fallow  deer  glimmered  through  the 
trees,  and  the  whiter  ones  among  them  cast  a  light  round  them 
in  the  shadows.  Through  the  trees  that  on  one  side  descended 
to  the  meadow  below,  came  the  shine  of  the  water  where  the 
little  brook  had  spread  into  still  pools.  All  without  was  bright 
with  sunshine  and  clear  air.  But  when  you  turned,  all  was 
dark,  sombre,  and  rich  like  an  autumn  ten  times  faded. 
Through  the  open  door  of  the  next  room  on  one  side,  you  saw 
the  shelves  full  of  books,  and  from  beyond,  through  the  nar- 
row uplifted  door,  came  the  glimmer  of  the  weapons  on  the 
wall  of  the  little  armory.  Two  ancient  tapestry-covered 
settees,  in  which  the  ravages  of  moth  and  worm  had  been 
met  by  skillful  repair  of  chisel  and  needle,  a  heavy  table  of 
oak,  with  carved  sides,  as  black  as  ebony,  and  a  few  old, 
straight-backed  chairs  were  the  sole  furniture. 

Sir  Giles  expressed  much  pleasure,  and  Lady  Brotherton, 
beginning  to  enter  a  little  into  my  plans,  was  more  gracious 
than  hitherto. 

"  We  must  give  a  party  as  soon  as  you  have  finished,  Mr. 
Cumbermede,"  she  said  ;  "  and " 


308  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  That  will  be  some  time  yet,"  I  interrupted,  not  desiring 
the  invitation  she  seemed  about  to  force  herself  to  utter;  "and 
I  fear  there  are  not  many  in  this  neighborhood  who  will  ap- 
preciate the  rarity  and  value  of  the  library — if  the  other 
rooms  should  turn  out  as  rich  as  that  one." 

"  I  believe  old  books  are  expensive  nowadays,"  she  re- 
turned.    "  They  are  more  sought  after,  I  understand." 

We  resumed  our  work  with  fresh  vigor,  and  got  on  faster. 
Both  Clara  and  Mary  were  assiduous  in  their  help. 

To  go  back  for  a  little  to  my  own  old  chest — we  found  it, 
as  I  have  said,  full  of  musty  papers.  After  turning  over  a 
few,  seeming,  to  my  uneducated  eye,  deeds  and  wills  and  such 
like,  out  of  which  it  was  evident  I  could  gather  no  barest 
meaning  without  a  labor  I  was  not  inclined  to  expend  on 
them, — for  I  had  no  pleasure  in  such  details  as  irvolved 
nothing  of  the  picturesque, — I  threw  the  one  in  my  hand 
upon  the  heap  already  taken  from  the  box,  and  to  the  indigna- 
tion of  Charley,  who  was  absorbed  in  one  of  them,  and  had 
not  spoken  a  word  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Come,  Charley  ;  I'm  sick  of  the  rubbish.  Let's  go  and 
have  a  walk  before  supper." 

"  Kubbish !"  he  repeated ;  "  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !" 

"I  see  Clara  has  been  setting  you  on.  I  wonder  what  she's 
got  in  her  head.  I  am  sure  I  have  quite  a  sufficient  regard 
for  family  history  and  all  that." 

"  Very  like  it !"  said  Charley — "  calliug  such  a  chestful  as 
this  rubbish!" 

"  I  am  pleased  enough  to  possess  it,"  I  said;  "  but  if  they 
had  been  such  books  as  some  of  those  at  the  Hall " 

"  Look  here  then,"  he  said,  stooping  over  the  chest,  and 
with  some  difficulty  hauling  out  a  great  folio  which  he  had 
discovered  below,  but  had  not  yet  examined — "just  see  what 
you  can  make  of  that." 

I  opened  the  title-page,  rather  eagerly.  I  stared.  Could  I 
believe  my  eyes  ?  First  of  all  on  the  top  of  it,  in  the  neatest 
old  hand,  was  written — "  Guilfrid  Combremead   His    Boke. 


THE   OLD   CHEST.  309 

1630."  Then  followed  what  I  will  not  write,  lest  this  MS. 
should  by  any  accident  fall  into  the  hands  of  book-hunters 
before  my  death.  I  jumped  to  my  feet,  gave  a  shout  that 
brought  Charley  to  his  feet  also,  and  danced  about  the  empty 
room  hugging  the  folio.  "  Have  you  lost  your  senses  ?"  said 
Charley;  but  when  he  had  a  peep  of  the  title-page,  he  became 
as  much  excited  as  myself,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he 
could  settle  down  to  the  papers  again.  Like  a  bee  over  a 
flower-bed,  I  went  dipping  and  sipping  at  my  treasure.  Every 
word  of  the  well-known  lines  bore  a  flavor  of  ancient  verity 
such  as  I  had  never  before  perceived  in  them.  At  length  I 
looked  up,  and  finding  him  as  much  absorbed  as  I  had  been 
myself, 

"  AYell,  Charley,  what  are  you  finding  there  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Proof,  perhaps,  that  you  come  of  an  older  family  than 
you  think,"  he  answered ;  "  proof  certainly  that  some  part  at 
least  of  the  Moldwarp  property  was  at  one  time  joined  to  the 
Moat,  and  that  you  are  of  the  same  stock  a  branch  of  which 
was  afterwards  raised  to  the  present  baronetage.  At  least  I 
have  little  doubt  such  is  the  case,  though  I  can  hardly  say  I 
am  yet  prepared  to  prove  it." 

"  You  don't  mean  I'm  of  the  same  blood  as — as  Geofirey 
Brotherton !"  I  said.  "  I  would  rather  not,  if  it's  the  same  to 
you,  Charley." 

"  I  can't  help  it :  that's  the  way  things  point,"  he  answered, 
throwing  down  the  parchment.  "  But  I  can't  read  more  now. 
Let's  go  and  have  a  walk.  I'll  stop  at  home  to-morrow,  and 
take  a  look  over  the  whole  set." 

"  I'll  stop  with  you." 

"  No,  you  won't.  You'll  go  and  get  on  with  your  library. 
I  shall  do  better  alone.  If  I  could  only  gel  a  peep  at  the 
Moldwarp  chest  as  well !" 

"  But  the  place  may  have  been  bought  and  sold  many 
times.  Just  look  here  though,"  I  said,  as  I  showed  him  the 
crest  on  my  watch  and  seal.  "  Mind  you  look  at  the  top  of 
your  spoon  the  next  time  you  eat  soup  at  the  Hall." 

"  That  is  unnecessary,  quite.     I  recognize  the  crest  at  once. 


310  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

How  strangely  these  cryptographs  come  drifting  along  the 
tide,  like  the  gilded  ornaments  of  a  wreck  after  the  hull  has 
gone  down  !" 

"  Or,  like  the  mole  or  squint  that  reappears  in  successive 
generations,  the  legacy  of  some  long-forgotten  ancestor,"  I 
said — and  several  things  unexplained  occurred  to  me  as 
possibly  having  a  common  solution. 

"I  fmd,  however,"  said  Charley,  "that  the  name  of  Cum- 
bermede  is  not  mentioned  in  your  papers  more  than  about  a 
hundred  years  back — as  far  as  I  have  yet  made  out." 

"  That  is  odd,"  I  returned,  "  seeing  that  in  the  same  chest 
we  find  that  book  with  my  name,  surname  and  Christian,  and 
the  date  1630." 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  acquiesced,  "  and  will  perhaps  require  a 
somewhat  complicated  theory  to  meet  it." 

We  began  to  talk  of  other  matters,  and  naturally  enough, 
soon  came  to  Clara. 

Charley  was  never  ready  to  talk  of  her — indeed  avoided 
the  subject  in  a  way  that  continued  to  perplex  me. 

"  I  confess  to  you,  Charley,"  I  said,  "  there  is  something 
about  her  I  do  not  and  cannot  understand.  It  seems  to  me 
always  as  if  she  were — I  will  not  say  underhand,  but  as  if  she 
had  some  object  in  view — some  design  upon  you — " 

"  Upon  me !"  exclaimed  Charley,  looking  at  me  suddenly 
and  with  a  face  from  which  all  the  color  had  fled. 

"No,  no,  Charley,  not  that,"  I  answered,  laughing.  "I 
used  the  word  impersonally.  I  will  be  more  cautious.  One 
would  think  we  had  been  talking  about  a  witch — or  a  demon- 
lady — you  are  so  frightened  at  the  notion  of  her  having  you 
in  her  eye." 

He  did  not  seem  altogether  relieved,  and  I  caught  an 
uneasy  glance  seeking  my  countenance. 

"  But  isn't  she  charming  ?"  I  went  on.  "  It  is  only  to  you 
I  could  talk  about  her  so.  And  after  all  it  may  be  only  a 
fancy." 

He  kept  his  face  downward  and  aside,  as  if  he  were  ponder- 
ing and  coming  to  no  conclusion.     The  silence  grew  and  grew 


THE   OLD   CHEST.  311 

until  expectation  ceased,  and  when  I  spoke  again,  it  was  of 
something  different. 

My  reader  may  be  certain  from  all  this  tliat  I  was  not  in 
love  with  Clara.  Her  beauty  and  liveliness,  with  a  gayety 
which  not  seldom  assumed  the  form  of  grace,  attracted  me 
much,  it  is  true  ;  but  nothing  interferes  more  with  the  growth 
of  any  passion  than  a  spirit  of  questioning,  and  that  once 
aroused,  love  begins  to  cease  and  pass  into  pain.  Few, 
perhaps,  could  have  arrived  at  the  point  of  admiration  I  had 
reached  without  falling  instantly  therefrom  into  an  abyss  of 
absorbing  passion ;  but  with  me,  inasmuch  as  I  searched  every 
feeling  in  the  hope  of  finding  in  it  the  everlasting,  there  was 
in  the  present  case  a  reiterated  check,  if  not  indeed  recoil ;  for 
I  was  not  and  could  not  make  myself  sure  that  Clara  was 
upright; — perhaps  the  more  commonplace  word  straightfor- 
ward would  express  my  meaning  better. 

Anxious  to  get  the  books  arranged  before  they  all  left  me, 
for  I  knew  I  should  have  but  little  heart  for  it  after  they  were 
gone,  I  grudged  Charley  the  forenoon  he  wanted  amongst  my 
papers,  and  prevailed  upon  him  to  go  with  me  next  day  as 
usual.  Another  fortnight,  which  was  almost  the  limit  of  their 
stay,  would,  I  thought,  suffice ;  and  giving  up  everything  else> 
Charley  and  I  worked  from  morning  till  night,  with  much 
though  desultory  assistance  from  the  ladies.  I  contrived  to 
keep  the  carpenter  and  housemaid  in  work,  and  by  the  end  of 
the  week  began  to  see  the  inroads  of  order  "  scattering  the 
rear  of  darkness  thin," 


<Jli^  WILFKID   CUMBEUMEDE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

MARY  OSBORNE. 

All  this  time  the  acquaintance  between  Mary  Osborne  and 
myself  had  not  improved.  Save  as  the  sister  of  my  friend  I 
had  not,  I  repeat,  found  her  interesting.  She  did  not  seem  at 
all  to  fulfill  the  promise  of  her  childhood.  Hardly  once  did 
she  address  me ;  and,  when  I  spoke  to  her,  would  reply  with  a 
simple,  dull  directness,  which  indicated  nothing  beyond  the 
fact  of  the  passing  occasion.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  I  con- 
cluded that  the  more  indulgence  she  cherished  for  Charley, 
the  less  she  felt  for  his  friend — that  to  him  she  attributed  the 
endlessly  sad  declension  of  her  darling  brother.  Once  on  her 
face  I  surprised  a  look  of  unutterable  sorrow  resting  on 
Charley's ;  but  the  moment  she  saw  that  I  observed  her,  the 
look  died  out,  and  her  face  stiffened  into  its  usual  dullness  and 
negation.  On  me  she  turned  only  the  unenlightened  disc  of 
her  soul.  Mrs.  Osborre,  whom  I  seldom  saw,  behaved  with 
much  more  kindness,  though  hardly  more  cordiality.  It  was 
only  that  she  allowed  her  bright  indulgence  for  Charley  to 
cast  the  shadow  of  his  image  over  the  faults  of  his  friend  ; 
and  except  by  the  sadness  that  dwelt  in  every  line  of  her 
sweet  face,  she  did  not  attract  me.  I  was  ever  aware  of  an 
inward  judgment  which  I  did  not  believe  I  deserved,  and  I 
would  turn  from  her  look  with  a  sense  of  injury  w^hich  greater 
love  would  have  changed  into  keen  pain. 

Once,  however,  I  did  meet  a  look  of  sympathy  from  Maiy. 
On  the  second  Monday  of  the  fortnight  I  was  more  anxious 
than  ever  to  reach  the  end  of  my  labors,  and  was  in  the  court, 
accompanied  by  Charley,  as  early  as  eight  o'clock.  From  the 
hall  a  dark  passage  led  past  the  door  of  the  dining-room  to 
the  garden.  Through  the  dark  tube  of  the  passage,  we  saw 
the  bright  green  of  a  lovely  bit  of  sward,  and  upon  it  Mary 
and  Clara  radiant  in  white  morning  dresses.     We  joined  them. 


MARY   OSBORNE.  313 

"  Here  come  the  slave-drivers  !"  remarked  Clara. 

"  Already !"  said  Mary,  in  a  low  voice,  which  I  thought 
had  a  tinge  of  dismay  in  its  tone. 

*^  Never  mind,  Polly,"  said  her  companion — "we're  not 
going  to  bow  to  their  will  and  pleasure.  We'll  have  our  walk 
in  spite  of  them." 

As  she  spoke  she  threw  a  glance  at  us  which  seemed  to  say 
— "  You  may  come  if  you  like ;"  then  turned  to  Mary  with 
another  which  said :  "  We  shall  see  whether  they  prefer  old 
books  or  young  ladies." 

Charley  looked  at  me — interrogatively. 

"  Do  as  you  like,  Charley,"  I  said. 

"  I  will  do  as  you  do,"  he  answered. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  have  no  right " 

"  Oh,  bother !"  said  Clara — "  You're  so  magnificent  always 
with  your  rights  and  wrongs !  Are  you  coming,  or  are  you 
not?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  coming,"  I  replied,  convicted  by  Clara's  direct- 
ness, for  I  was  quite  ready  to  go. 

We  crossed  the  court,  and  strolled  through  the  park,  which 
was  of  great  extent,  in  the  direction  of  a  thick  wood,  covering 
a  rise  towards  the  east.  The  morning  air  was  perfectly  still ; 
there  was  a  little  dew  on  the  grass,  which  shone  rather  than 
sparkled;  the  sun  was  burning  through  a  light  fog,  which 
grew  deeper  as  we  approached  the  wood ;  the  decaying  leaves 
filled  the  air  with  their  sweet,  mournful  scent.  Through  the 
wood  went  a  wide  opening  or  glade,  stretching  straight  and 
far  towards  the  east,  and  along  this  we  walked  with  that  exhil- 
aration which  the  fading  autumn  so  strangely  bestows.  For 
some  distance  the  ground  ascended  softly,  but  the  view  was 
finally  closed  in  by  a  more  abrupt  swell,  over  the  brow  of 
which  the  mist  hung  in  dazzling  brightness. 

Notwithstanding  the  gayety  of  animal  spirits  produced  by 
the  season,  I  felt  unusually  depressed  that  morning.  Already, 
I  believe,  I  was  beginning  to  feel  the  home-born  sadness  of  the 
soul  whose  wings  are  weary  and  whose  foot  can  find  no  firm 
soil  on  which  to  rest.     Sometimes  I  think  the  wonder  is  that 


31-4  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

SO  many  mcu  are  never  sad.  I  doubt  if  Charley  would  have 
sutfered  so  but  for  the  wrongs  his  father's  selfish  religion  had 
done  him  ;  which  perhaps  were  therefore  so  far  well,  inasmuch 
as  otherwise  he  might  not  have  cared  enough  about  religion 
even  to  doubt  concerning  it.  But  in  my  case  now,  it  may  have 
been  only  the  unsatisfying  presence  of  Clara,  haunted  by  a 
dim  reerret  that  I  could  not  love  her  more  than  I  did.  For 
with  regard  to  her,  my  soul  was  like  one  who,  in  a  dream 
of  delight,  sees  outspread  before  him  a  wide  river,  wherein  he 
makes  haste  to  plunge  that  he  may  disport  himself  in  the  fine 
element;  but,  wading  eagerly,  alas!  finds  not  a  single  pool 
deeper  than  his  knees. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Wilfrid  ?"  said  Charley,  who, 
in  the  midst  of  some  gay  talk,  suddenly  perceived  my  silence. 
"  You  seem  to  lose  all  your  spirits  away  from  your  precious 
library.  I  do  believe  you  grudge  every  moment  not  spent 
upon  those  ragged  old  books." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  Charley ;  I  was  wondering  what 
lies  beyond  that  mist." 

"  I  see ! — A  chapter  of  the  Pilgrims  Progress  !  Here  we 
are — Mary,  you're  Christiana,  and  Clara,  you're  Mercy.  Wil- 
frid, you're — what  ? — I  should  have  said  Hopeful  any  other 
day,  but  this  morning  you  look  like — let  me  see — like  Mr. 
Ready-to-Halt.  The  celestial  city  lies  behind  that  fog — 
doesn't  it,  Christiana  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  so,  Charley,"  said  his  sister, 
smiling  in  his  face. 

"  They  ain't  in  the  Bible,"  he  returned. 

"  No — and  I  shouldn't  mind  if  you  were  only  merry,  but 
you  know  you  are  scofling  at  the  story,  and  I  love  it — so  I 
can't  be  pleased  to  hear  you." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mary — but  your  celestial  city  lies 
behind  such  a  fog,  that  not  one  crystal  turret,  one  pearly  gate 
of  it  was  ever  seen.  At  least  we  have  never  caught  a  glimmer 
of  it  ;  and  must  go  tramp,  tramp — ^we  don't  know  whither, 
any  more  than  the  blind  puppy  that  has  crawled  too  fa*'  fi*oia 
his  mother's  side.'* 


MARY   OSBORNE.  315 

"  I  do  see  the  light  of  it,  Charley  dear,"  said  Mary,  sadly — 
not  as  if  the  light  were  any  great  comfort  to  her  at  the  moment. 

"  If  you  do  see  something — how  can  you  tell  what  it's  the 
light  of?  It  may  come  from  the  city  of  Dis,  for  anything  you 
know." 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  is." 

"  Oh !  the  red-hot  city — down  below.  You  will  find  all 
about  it  in  Dante." 

"It  doesn't  look  like  that — the  light  I  see,"  said  Mary, 
quietly. 

"  How  very  ill-bred  you  are — to  say  such  wicked  things, 
Charley !"  said  Clara. 

"Ami?  They  are  better  unmentioned.  Let  us  eat  and 
drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die !  Only  don't  allude  to  the  un- 
pleasant subject." 

He  burst  out  singing  ;  the  verses  were  poor,  but  I  will  give 
them. 

"  Let  the  sun  shimmer ! 

Let  the  wind  blow ! 
All  is  a  notion — 

What  do  we  know? 
Let  the  moon  glimmer  I 

Let  the  stream  flow ! 
All  is  but  motion 

To  and  fro ! 

"  Let  the  rose  wither ! 

Let  the  stars  glow  I 
Let  the  rain  batter — 

Drift  sleet  and  snow ! 
Bring  the  tears  hither  I 

Let  the  smiles  go  ! 
What  does  it  matter  ? 

To  and  fro  ! 

"  To  and  fro  ever. 
Motion  and  show  1 

Nothing  goes  onward- 
Hurry  or  no  ! 

All  is  one  river — 
Seaward,  and  so 

Up  again  eunward— 
To  and  fro  ! 


816  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"Pendulum  sweeping 

High,  and  now  low  I 
That  star — tic,  blot  it ! 

2'ac,  let  it  go  ! 
Time  he  is  reaping 

Ilay  for  his  mow ; 
That  flower — he's  got  it  1 

To  and  fro  I 

"  Such  a  scythe  swinging. 

Mighty  and  slow  ! 
Ripping  and  slaying — 

Hey  nonny  no  ! 
Black  Ribs  is  singing — 

Chorus — Hey,  ho  ! 
What  is  he  saying — 

To  and  fro  ? 

**  Singing  and  saying 
*  Grass  is  hay — ho  I 
Love  is  a  longing; 

Water  is  snow.* 
Swinging  and  swaying. 

Toll  the  bells  go ! 
Dinging  and  donging 
To  and  fro." 

"Oh  Charley!"  said  his  sister,  with  suppressed  agonjj 
"  what  a  wicked  song  !" 

"  It  is  a  wicked  song,"  I  said.  "  But  I  meant — it  only  rep- 
resents an  unbelieving,  hopeless  mood." 

"  You  wrote  it  then !"  she  said,  giving  me — as  it  seemed, 
involuntarily — a  look  of  reproach. 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  but " 

"Then  I  think  you  are  very  horrid,"  said  Clara,  inter- 
rupting. 

"  Charley!"  I  said,  "you  must  not  leave  your  sister  to  think 
so  badly  of  me !  You  know  why  I  wrote  it — and  what  I 
meant." 

"  I  wish  I  had  written  it  myself,"  he  returned.  "  I  think  it 
splendid.     Anybody  might  envy  you  that  song." 

"  But  you  know  I  didn't  mean  it  for  a  true  one." 


MARY   OSBORNE.  317 

"  Who  knows  whether  it  is  true  or  false  ?" 

"/know,"  said  Mary  :  " I  know  it  is  false.'* 

"And  /hope  it,"  I  adjoined. 

"  What  ever  put  such  horrid  things  in  your  head,  Wilfrid  ?" 
asked  Clarac 

"  Probably  the  fear  lest  they  should  be  true.  The  verses 
came  as  I  sat  in  a  country  church  once,  not  long  ago." 

"In  a  church  !"  exclaimed  Mary. 

"  Oh !  he  does  go  to  church  sometimes,"  said  Charley  with  a 
laugh. 

"  How  could  you  think  of  it  in  church  ?"  persisted  Mary. 

"  It's  more  like  the  churchyard,"  said  Clara. 

"  It  was  in  an  old  church  in  a  certain  desolate  sea-forsaken 
town,"  I  said.  "  The  pendulum  of  the  clock — a  huge,  long, 
heavy,  slow  thing,  hangs  far  down  into  the  church,  and  goes 
swing,  swang  over  your  head,  three  or  four  seconds  to  every 
swing.  When  you  have  heard  the  tic,  your  heart  grows  faint 
every  time  between — waiting  for  the  tac,  which  seems  as  if  it 
would  never  come." 

We  were  ascending  the  acclivity,  and  no  one  spoke  again 
before  we  reached  the  top.  There  a  wide  landscape  lay 
stretched  before  us.  The  mist  was  rapidly  melting  away 
before  the  gathering  strength  of  the  sun :  as  we  stood  and  gazed 
we  could  see  it  vanishing.  By  slow  degrees  the  colors  of  the  au- 
tumn woods  dawned  out  of  it.  Close  under  us  lay  a  great 
wave  of  gorgeous  red — beeches  I  think — in  the  midst  of  which, 
here  and  there,  stood  up,  tall  and  straight  and  dark,  the  un- 
changing green  of  a  fir-tree.  The  glow  of  a  hectic  death  was 
over  the  landscape,  melting  away  into  the  misty  fringe  of  the 
far  horizon.  Overhead  the  sky  was  blue  with  a  clear  thin 
blue  that  told  of  withdrawing  suns  and  coming  frosts. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  said,  "  I  cannot  believe  that  beyond  this 
loveliness  there  lies  no  greater.  Who  knows,  Charley,  but 
death  may  be  the  first  recognizable  step  of  the  progress  of 
which  you  despair  ?" 

It  was  then  I  caught  the  look  from  Mary's  eye,  for  the  sake 
of  which  I  have  recorded  the  little  incidents  of  the  morning. 


318  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

But  the  same  moment  the  look  faded,  and  the  veil  or  the  mask 
fell  over  her  face. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  If  there  has  been  no  progress  be- 
fore, there  will  be  little  indeed  after." 

Now  of  all  things,  I  hated  the  dogmatic  theology  of  the 
party  in  which  she  had  been  brought  up,  and  I  turned  from 
her  with  silent  dislike. 

"  Really,"  said  Clara,  "  you  gentlemen  have  been  very  en- 
tertaining this  morning.  One  would  think  Polly  and  I  had 
come  out  for  a  stroll  with  a  couj^le  of  undcrtaker's-men. 
There's  surely  time  enough  to  think  of  such  things  yet !  None 
of  us  are  at  death's  door  exactly." 

" '  Sweet  Remembrancer  !' — Who  knows  ?"  said  Charley. 

" '  Now  I,  to  comfort  him,' "  I  followed,  quoting  Mrs. 
Quickly  concerning  Sir  John  Falstaff,  " '  bid  him,  'a  should 
not  think  of  God ;  I  hoped  there  was  no  need  to  trouble  him- 
self with  any  such  thoughts  yet.' " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mary — "  there  was  no  word  of 
Him  in  the  matter." 

"  I  see,"  said  Clara :  "  you  meant  that  at  me,  Wilfrid.  But 
f  assure  you  I  am  no  heathen.  I  go  to  church  regularly — 
once  a  Sunday  when  I  can,  and  tw^ice  when  I  can't  help  it. 
That's  more  than  you  do,  Mr.  Cumbermede,  I  suspect." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  can't  imagine  you  enjoying  anything  but  the  burial  ser- 
vice." 

"  It  is  to  my  mind  the  most  consoling  of  them  all,"  I  answered. 

"  Well,  I  haven't  reached  the  point  of  wanting  that  conso- 
lation yet,  thank  heaven." 

"  Perhaps  some  of  us  would  rather  have  the  consolation 
than  give  thanks  that  we  didn't  need  it,"  I  said. 

"  I  can't  understand  you,  but  I  know  you  mean  something 
disagreeable.  Polly,  I  think  we  had  better  go  home  to  break- 
fast." 

Mary  turned,  and  we  all  followed.  Little  was  said  on  the 
way  home.  We  divided  in  the  hall — the  ladies  to  breakfast, 
and  we  to  our  work. 


MARY   OSBORNE.  319 

We  had  not  spoken  for  an  hour,  when  Charley  broke  the 
silence. 

"  What  a  brute  I  am,  Wilfrid  !"  he  said.  "  Why  shouldn't 
I  be  as  good  as  Jesus  Christ  ?  It  seems  always  as  if  a  man 
might.  But  just  look  at  me!  Because  I  was  miserable 
myself,  I  went  and  made  my  poor  little  sister  twice  as  misera- 
ble as  she  was  before.  She'll  never  get  over  what  I  said  this 
morning." 

"  It  was  foolish  of  you,  Charley." 

"  It  was  brutal.  I  am  the  most  selfish  creature  in  the  world 
— always  taken  up  with  myself.  I  do  believe  there  is  a  devil, 
after  all.  /  am  a  devil.  And  the  universal  self  is  the  devil. 
If  there  were  such  a  thing  as  a  self  always  giving  itself  away 
— that  self  would  be  God." 

"  Something  very  like  the  God  of  Christianity,  I  think." 

"  If  it  were  so,  there  would  be  a  chance  for  us.  We  might 
then  one  day  give  the  finishing  blow  to  the  devil  in  us.  But 
no  :  he  does  all  for  his  own  glory." 

"  It  depends  on  what  his  glory  is.  If  what  the  self-seeking 
self  would  call  glory,  then  I  agree  with  you — that  is  not  the 
God  we  need.     But  if  his  gloiy  should  be  just  the  opposite — 

the  perfect  giving  of  himself  away — then .     Of  course  I 

know  nothing  about  it.    My  uncle  used  to  say  things  like  that." 

He  did  not  reply,  and  we  went  on  with  our  work.  Neither 
of  the  ladies  came  near  us  again  that  day. 

Before  the  end  of  the  week,  the  library  was  in  tolerable 
order  to  the  eye,  though  it  could  not  be  perfectly  arranged 
until  the  commencement  of  a  catalogue  should  be  as  the  dawn 
ef  a  consciousness  in  the  half-restored  mass. 


320  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

A  STORM. 

So  many  books  of  rarity  and  value  had  revealed  themselves 
that  it  "was  not  difficult  to  make  Sir  Giles  comprehend  in  some 
degree  the  importance  of  such  a  possession ;  he  had  grown 
more  and  more  interested  as  the  work  went  on  :  and  even 
Lady  Brotherton,  although  she  much  desired  to  have  at  least 
the  oldest  and  most  valuable  of  the  books  re-bound  in  red 
morocco  first,  was  so  far  satisfied  with  what  she  was  told  con- 
cerning the  worth  of  the  library,  that  she  determined  to  invite 
some  of  the  neighbors  to  dinner,  for  the  sake  of  showing  it. 
The  main  access  to  it  was  to  be  by  the  armory ;  and  she  had 
that  side  of  the  gallery  round  the  hall  which  led  thither, 
covered  with  a  thick  carpet. 

Meanwhile  Charley  had  looked  over  all  the  papers  in  my 
chest,  but,  beyond  what  I  have  already  stated,  no  fact  of  spe- 
cial interest  had  been  brought  to  light. 

In  sending  an  invitation  to  Charley,  Lady  Brotherton  could 
hardly  avoid  sending  me  one  as  well:  I  doubt  whether  I 
should  otherwise  have  been  allowed  to  enjoy  the  admiration 
bestowed  on  the  result  of  my  labors. 

The  dinner  was  formal  and  dreary  enough :  the  geniality  of 
one  of  the  heads  of  a  household  is  seldom  sufficient  to  give 
character  to  an  entertainment. 

"  They  tell  me  you  are  a  buyer  of  books,  Mr.  Alderfcrge," 
said  Mr.  Mollet  to  the  clergyman  of  a  neighboring  parish,  as 
we  sat  over  our  wine. 

"  Quite  a  mistake,"  returned  Mr.  Alderforge.  "  I  am  a 
reader  of  books." 

"  That  of  course !     But  you  buy  them  first — don't  you?" 

"  Not  always.     I  sometimes  borrow  them." 


A   STORM.  321 

"That  I  never  do.  If  a  book  is  worth  borrowing,  it  is 
worth  buying." 

"  Perhaps — if  you  can  afford  it.  But  many  books  that 
book-buyers  value,  I  count  worthless — for  all  their  wide 
margins  and  uncut  leaves." 

"Will  you  come  and  haver  a  look  at  Sir  Giles's  library?" 
I  ventured  to  say. 

"I  never  heard  of  a  library  at  Moldwarp  Hall,  Sir 
Giles,"  said  Mr.  Mollet. 

"  I  am  given  to  understand  there  is  a  very  valuable  one," 
said  Mr.  Alderforge.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  accompany  you, 
sir,"  he  added,  turning  to  me,  — "  if  Sir  Giles  will  allow  us." 

"  You  cannot  have  a  better  guide  than  Mr.  Cumbermede," 
said  Sir  Giles.  "  I  am  indebted  to  him  almost  for  the  dis- 
covery— altogether  for  the  restoration  of  the  library." 

"  Assisted  by  Miss  Brotherton  and  her  friends.  Sir  Giles," 
I  said. 

"A  son  of  Mr.  Cumbermede  of  Lowdon  Farm,  I  pre- 
sume ?"  said  Mr.  Alderforge,  bowing  interrogatively. 

"  A  nephew,"  I  answered. 

"  He  was  a  most  worthy  man. — By  the  way.  Sir  Giles,  your 
young  friend  here  must  be  a  distant  connection  of  your  own. 
I  found  in  some  book  or  other  lately,  I  forget  where  at  the 
moment,  that  there  were  Cumbermedes  at  one  time  in  Mold- 
warp Hall." 

"  Yes — about  two  hundred  years  ago,  I  believe.  It  passed 
to  our  branch  of  the  family  some  time  during  the  troubles  of 
the  seventeenth  century — I  hardly  know  how — I  am  not 
much  of  an  historian." 

I  thought  of  my  precious  volume,  and  the  name  on  the 
title-page.  That  book  might  have  once  been  in  the  library  of 
Moldwarp  Hall.  If  so,  how  had  it  strayed  into  my  possession 
— alone,  yet  more  to  me  than  all  that  was  left  behind  ? 

We  betook  ourselves  to  the  library.     The  visitors  expressed 
themselves  astonished  at  its  extent,  and  the  wealth  which  even 
a  glance  revealed — for  I  took  care  to  guide  their  notice  to 
its  richest  veins. 
21 


322  WILFRID  CUMBEPvMEDE. 

"  When  it  is  once  arranged,"  I  said,  "  I  fancy  there  will  be 
few  private  libraries  to  stand  a  comparison  with  it — I  am 
thinking  of  old  English  literature,  and  old  editions  :  there  is 
not  a  single  volume  of  the  present  century  in  it,  so  far  as  I 
know." 

I  had  had  a  few  old  sconces  fixed  here  and  there,  but  as  yet 
there  were  no  means  of  really  lighting  the  rooms.  Hence, 
when  a  great  flash  of  lightning  broke  from  a  cloud  that  hung 
over  the  park  right  in  front  of  the  windows,  it  flooded  them 
with  a  dazzling  splendor.  I  went  to  find  Charley,  for  the 
library  was  the  best  place  to  see  the  lightning  from.  As  I 
entered  the  drawing-room,  a  tremendous  peal  of  thunder  burst 
over  the  house,  causing  so  much  consternation  amongst  the 
ladies,  that,  for  the  sake  of  company,  they  all  followed  to  the 
library.  Clara  seemed  more  frightened  than  any.  Mary  was 
perfectly  calm.  Charley  was  much  excited.  The  storm  grew 
in  violence.  AVe  saw  the  lightning  strike  a  tree  which  stood 
alone  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  house.  When  the  next 
flash  came,  half  of  one  side  seemed  torn  away.  The  wind 
rose,  first  in  fierce  gusts,  then  into  a  tempest,  and  the  rain 
poured  in  torrents. 

"  JSTone  of  you  can  go  home  to-night,  ladies,"  said  Sir  Giles. 
"You  must  make  up  your  minds  to  stay  where  you  are.  Few 
horses  would  face  such  a  storm  as  that." 

"  It  would  be  to  tax  your  hospitality  too  grievously.  Sir 
Giles,"  said  Mr.  Alderforge.  "  I  dare  say  it  will  clear  up  by 
and  by,  or  at  least  moderate  sufiiciently  to  let  us  get  home." 

"  I  don't  think  there's  much  chance  of  that,"  returned  Sir 
Giles.  "  The  barometer  has  been  steadily  falling  for  the  last 
three  days.  My  dear,  you  had  better  give  your  orders  at 
once." 

"  You  had  better  stop,  Charley,"  I  said. 

"  I  won't  if  you  go,"  he  returned. 

Clara  was  beside. 

"  You  must  not  think  of  going,"  she  said. 

Whether  she  spoke  to  him  or  me,  I  did  not  know,  but  as 
Charley  made  no  answer — 


A   STORM.  323 

•'  I  cannot  stop  without  being  asked,"  I  said,  "  and  it  is  not 
likely  any  one  will  take  the  trouble  to  ask  me." 

The  storm  increased.  At  the  request  of  the  ladies,  the  gen- 
tlemen left  the  library  and  accompanied  them  to  the  drawing- 
room  for  tea.  Our  hostess  asked  Clara  to  sing,  but  she 
was  too  frightened  to  comply. 

"  You  will  sing,  Mary,  if  Lady  Brotherton  asks  you,  I 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Osborne. 

"  Do,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Brotherton ;  and  Mary  at  once 
complied. 

I  had  never  heard  her  sing,  and  did  not  expect  much.  But 
although  she  had  little  execution^  there  was,  I  found,  a  wonder- 
ful charm  both  in  her  voice  and  the  simplicity  of  her  mode. 
I  did  not  feel  this  at  first,  nor  could  I  tell  when  the  song  began 
to  lay  hold  upon  me  ;  but  when  it  ceased,  I  found  that  I  had 
been  listening  intently.  I  have  often  since  tried  to  recall  it, 
but  as  yet  it  has  eluded  all  my  efibrts.  I  still  cherish  the  hope 
that  it  may  return  some  night  in  a  dream,  or  in  some  waking 
moment  of  quiescent  thought,  when  what  we  call  the  brain 
works  as  it  were  of  itself,  and  the  spirit  allows  it  play. 

The  close  was  lost  in  a  louder  peal  of  thunder  than  had  yet 
burst.  Charley  and  I  went  again  to  the  library  to  look  out  on 
the  night.  It  was  dark  as  pitch,  except  when  the  lightning 
broke  and  revealed  everything  for  one  intense  moment. 

"  I  think  sometimes,"  said  Charley,  "  that  death  will  be  like 
one  of  those  flashes,  revealing  everything  in  hideous  fact — for 
just  one  moment  and  no  more." 

"  How  for  one  moment  and  no  more,  Charley  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  the  sight  of  the  truth  concerning  itself  must  kill 
the  soul,  if  there  be  one,  with  disgust  at  its  own  vileness,  and 
the  miserable  contrast  between  its  aspirations  and  attainments, 
its  pretences  and  its  efforts.  At  least,  that  would  be  the  death 
fit  for  a  life  like  mine — a  death  of  disgust  at  itself.  We  claim 
immortality ;  we  cringe  and  cower  with  the  fear  that  immor- 
tality may  not  be  the  destiny  of  man  ;  and  yet  we — / — do 
things  unworthy  not  merely  of  immortality,  but  unworthy  of 
the  butterfly  existence  of  a  single  day  in  such  a  world  as  thia 


324  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

sometimes  seems  to  be.  Just  think  how  I  stabbed  at  my  sister's 
faith  this  moruiug — careless  of  making  her  as  miserable  as 
myself  I  Because  my  father  has  put  iuto  her  mind  his  fancies, 
and  I  hate  them,  I  would  wound  again  the  heart  which  they 
wound,  and  which  cannot  help  their  presence !" 

"  But  the  heart  that  can  be  sorry  Ibr  an  action  is  far  above 
the  action,  just  as  her  heart  is  better  than  the  notions  that 
haunt  it." 

"  Sometimes  I  hope  so.  But  action  determines  character. 
And  it  is  all  such  a  muddle  !  I  don't  care  much  about  what 
they  call  immortality.  I  doubt  if  it  is  v.'orth  the  having.  I 
would  a  thousand  times  rather  have  one  day  of  conscious  purity 
of  heart  and  mind,  and  soul  and  body,  than  an  eternity  of  such 

life  as  I  have  now. What  am  I  saying  ?"  he  added,  with  a 

despairing  laugh.  "  It  is  a  fool's  comparison  ;  for  an  eternity 
of  the  former  would  be  bliss — one  moment  of  the  latter  is 
misery." 

I  could  but  admire  and  pity  my  poor  friend  Jboth  at  once. 

Miss  Pease  had  entered  unheard. 

"Mr.  Cumbermede,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  looking  for  you 
to  show  you  your  room.  It  is  not  the  one  I  should  like  to  have 
got  for  you,  but  Mrs.  Wilson  says  you  have  occupied  it  before, 
and  I  dare  say  you  will  find  it  comfortable  enough." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Pease.  I  am  sorry  you  should  have  taken 
the  trouble.  I  can  go  home  well  enough.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
a  little  rain." 

"  A  little  rain !"  said  Charley,  trying  to  speak  lightly. 

"  Well,  any  amount  of  rain,"  I  said. 

"  But  the  lightning !" — expostulated  Miss  Pease,  in  a  timid 
voice. 

"  I  am  something  of  a  fatalist.  Miss  Pease,"  I  said.  "  '  Every 
bullet  has  its  billet,'  you  know.  Besides,  if  I  had  a  choice,  I 
think  I  would  rather  die  by  lightning  than  any  other  way." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Mr.  Cumbermede— Oh  !  what  a  flash !" 

"  I  was  not  speaking  irreverently,  I  assure  you,"  I  replied. — 
"  I  think  I  had  better  set  out  at  once,  for  there  seems  no  chance 
of  its  clearing." 


A   STORM.  325 

"  I  am  sure  Sir  Giles  would  be  distressed  if  you  did." 

"  He  will  never  know,  and  I  dislike  giving  trouble." 

"  The  room  is  ready.  I  will  show  you  where  it  is,  that  you 
may  go  when  you  like." 

"  If  Mrs.  Wilson  says  it  is  a  room  I  have  occupied  before,  I 
know  the  way  quite  well." 

"  There  are  two  ways  to  it,"  she  said.  "  But  of  course  one 
of  them  is  enough,"  she  added  with  a  smile.  "  Mr.  Osborne, 
your  room  is  in  another  part  quite." 

"  I  know  where  my  sister's  room  is,"  said  Charley.  "  Is  it 
anywhere  near  hers  ?" 

"  That  is  the  room  you  are  to  have.  Miss  Osborne  is  to  be 
with  your  mamma,  I  think.  There  is  plenty  of  accommoda- 
tion, only  the  notice  was  short." 

I  began  to  button  my  coat. 

"Don't  go,  Wilfrid,"  said  Charley.  "You  might  give 
offence.  Besides,  you  will  have  the  advantage  of  getting  to 
work  as  early  as  you  please  in  the  morning." 

It  was  late,  and  I  was  tired — consequently  less  inclined  than 
usual  to  encounter  a  storm,  for  in  general  I  enjoyed  being  in 
any  commotion  of  the  elements.  Also,  I  felt  I  should  like  to 
pass  another  night  in  that  room,  and  have  besides  the  opportu- 
nity of  once  more  examining  at  my  leisure  the  gap  in  the 
tapestry. 

"  Will  you  meet  me  early  in  the  library,  Charley  ?"  I  said. 

"  Yes — to  be  sure  I  will — as  early  as  you  like." 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  drawing-room  then." 

"  Why  should  you,  if  you  are  tired  and  want  to  go  to  bed  ?" 

"  Because  Lady  Brotherton  will  not  like  my  being  included 
in  the  invitation.  She  will  think  it  absurd  of  me  not  to  go 
home." 

"  There  is  no  occasion  to  go  near  her,  then." 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  sleep  in  the  house  without  knowing  that 
she  knows  it." 

We  went.  I  made  my  way  to  Lady  Brotherton.  Clara  was 
standing  near  her. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  by  your  hospitality,  Lady  Brotherton," 


326  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

I  said.  "  It  is  rather  a  rough  night  to  encounter  in  evening 
dress." 

She  bowed. 

"The  distance  is  not  great,  however,"  I  said,  "and  per- 
haps  "  « 

"  Out  of  the  question  I"  said  Sir  Giles,  who  came  up  at  the 
moment. 

"  Will  you  see  then.  Sir  Giles,  that  a  room  is  prepared  for 
your  gue.^t  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  trust  that  is  unnecessary,"  he  replied.  "  I  gave  orders." 
— But  as  he  spoke  he  went  towards  the  bell. 

"  It  is  all  arranged,  I  believe,  Sir  Giles,"  I  said.  "  Mrs. 
Wilson  has  already  informed  me  which  is  my  room.  Good- 
night, Sir  Giles.!' 

He  shook  hands  with  me  kindly.  I  bowed  to  Lady  Brother- 
ton,  and  retired. 

It  may  seem  foolish  to  record  such  mere  froth  of  conversa- 
tion, but  I  want  my  reader  to  understand  how  a  part  at  least 
of  the  family  of  Moldwarp  Hall  regarded  me. 


A   DREAM.  327 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A  DREAM. 

My  room  looked  dreary  enough.  There  was  no  fire,  and  the 
loss  of  the  patch  of  tapestry  from  the  wall  gave  the  whole  an 
air  of  dilapidation.  The  wind  howled  fearfully  in  the  chimney 
and  about  the  door  on  the  roof,  and  the  rain  came  down  on  the 
leads  like  the  distant  trampling  of  many  horses.  But  I  Avas 
not  in  an  imaginative  mood.  Charley  was  again  my  trouble. 
I  could  not  bear  him  to  be  so  miserable.  Why  was  I  not  as 
miserable  as  he,  I  asked  myself.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be,  for 
although  certainly  I  hoped  more,  I  could  not  say  I  believed 
more  than  he.  I  wished  more  than  ever  that  I  did  believe,  for 
then  I  should  be  able  to  help  him — I  was  sure  of  that;  but  I 
saw  no  possible  way  of  arriving  at  belief.  Where  was  the 
proof?     AVhere  even  the  hope  of  a  growing  probability? 

With  these  thoughts  drifting  about  in  my  brain,  like  waifs 
which  the  tide  will  not  let  go,  I  was  poring  over  the  mutilated 
forms  of  the  tapestry  round  the  denuded  door,  with  an  expecta- 
tion, almost  a  conviction,  that  I  should  find  the  fragment  still 
hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  kitchen  at  the  Moat,  the  very  piece 
wanted  to  complete  the  broken  figures.  When  I  had  them 
well  fixed  in  my  memory  I  went  to  bed,  and  lay  pondering 
over  the  several  broken  links  which  indicated  some  former  con- 
nection between  the  Moat  and  the  Hall,  until  I  fell  asleep,  and 
began  to  dream  strange  wild  dreams,  of  which  the  following 
was  the  last. 

I  was  in  a  great  palace,  wandering  hither  and  thither,  and 
meeting  no  one.  A  weight  of  silence  brooded  in  the  place. 
From  hall  to  hall  I  went,  along  corridor  and  gallery,  and  up 
and  down  endless  stairs.  I  knew  that  in  some  room  near  me 
was  one  whose  name  was  Athanasia, — a  maiden,  I  thought  in 
my  dream,  whom  I  had  known  and  loved  for  years,  but  had 


328  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

lately  lost — I  knew  not  how.  Somewhere  here  she  was,  if  only 
I  could  find  her !  From  room  to  room  I  went  seeking  her. 
Every  room  I  entered  bore  some  proof  that  she  had  just  been 
there— but  there  she  was  not.  In  one  lay  a  veil,  in  another  a 
handkerchief,  in  a  third  a  glove ;  and  all  were  scented  with  a 
strange  entrancing  odor,  which  I  had  never  known  before,  but 
which  in  certain  moods  I  can  to  this  day  imperfectly  recall.  I 
followed  and  followed  until  hope  failed  me  utterly,  and  I  sat 
down  and  wept.  But  while  I  wept,  hope  dawned  afresh,  and  I 
rose  and  again  followed  the  quest,  until  I  found  myself  in  a 
little  chapel  like  that  of  Moldwarp  Hall.  It  was  filled  with 
the  sound  of  an  organ,  distance-faint,  and  the  thin  music  was 
the  same  as  the  odor  of  the  handkerchief  which  I  carried  in 
my  bosom.  I  tried  to  follow  the  sound,  but  the  chapel  grew 
and  grew  as  I  wandered,  and  I  came  no  nearer  to  its  source. 
At  last  the  altar  rose  before  me  on  my  left,  and  through  the 
bowed  end  of  the  aisle  I  passed  behind  it  into  the  lady-chapel. 
There,  against  the  outer  wall  stood  a  dusky,  ill-defined  shape. 
Its  head  rose  above  the  sill  of  the  eastern  window,  and  I  saw 
it  against  the  rising  moon.  But  that  and  the  whole  figure  was 
covered  with  a  thick  drapery  ;  I  could  see  nothing  of  the  face, 
and  distinguish  little  of  the  form. 

"  What  art  thou  ?"  I  asked,  trembling. 

"  I  am  death — dost  thou  not  know  me  ?"  answered  the  figure 
in  a  sweet,  though  worn  and  weary  voice.  "  Thou  hast  been 
following  me  all  thy  life,  and  hast  followed  me  hither." 

Then  I  saw  through  the  lower  folds  of  the  cloudy  garment, 
which  grew  thin  and  gauze-like  as  I  gazed,  a  huge  iron  door, 
with  folding  leaves,  and  a  great  iron  bar  across  them. 

"  Art  thou  at  thy  own  door  ?"  I  asked.  "  Surely  thy  house 
cannot  open  under  the  eastern  window  of  the  church  ?" 

"  Follow  and  see/'  answered  the  figure. 

Turning,  it  drew  back  the  bolt,  threw  wide  the  portals,  and 
low-stooping  entered.  I  followed,  not  into  the  moonlit  night, 
but  through  a  cavernous  opening  into  darkness.  If  my  Atha- 
nasia  were  down  with  Death,  I  would  go  with  Death,  that  I 
might  at  least  end  with  her.     Down  and  down  I  followed  the 


A   DREAM.  329 

veiled  figure,  down  flight  after  flight  of  stony  stairs,  through 
passages  like  those  of  the  catacombs,  and  again  down  steep 
straight  stairs.  At  length  it  stopped  at  another  gate,  and  with 
beating  heart  I  heard  what  I  took  for  bony  fingers  fumbling 
with  a  chain  and  a  bolt.  But  ere  the  fastenings  had  yielded, 
once  more  I  heard  the  sweet  odor-like  music  of  the  distant 
organ.  The  same  moment  the  door  opened,  but  I  could  see 
nothing  for  some  time  for  the  mighty  inburst  of  a  lovely  light. 
A  fair  river,  brimming  full,  its  little  waves  flashing  in  the  sun 
and  wind,  washed  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  over  its  sur- 
face, hither  and  thither,  sped  the  white  sails  of  shining  boats, 
while  from  somewhere,  clear  now,  but  still  afar,  came  the 
sound  of  a  great  organ  psalm.  Beyond  the  river  the  sun  was 
rising — over  blue  summer  hills  that  melted  into  blue  summer 
sky.  On  the  threshold  stood  my  guide,  bending  towards  me, 
as  if  waiting  for  me  to  pass  out  also.  I  lifted  my  eyes :  the 
veil  had  fallen — it  was  my  lost  Athanasia !  Not  one  beam 
touched  her  face,  for  her  back  was  to  the  sun,  yet,  her  face 
was  radiant.  Trembling,  I  would  have  kneeled  at  her  feet, 
but  she  stepped  out  upon  the  flowing  river,  and  with  the 
sweetest  of  sad  smiles,  drew  the  door  to,  and  left  me  alone  in 
the  dark  hollow  of  the  earth.  I  broke  into  a  convulsive  weep- 
ing, and  awoke. 


<.%/i^ 


^i>' 


330  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

A   WAKING. 

1  SUPPOSE  I  awoke  tossing  in  my  misery,  for  my  hand  fell 
upon  something  cold.  I  started  up  and  tried  to  see.  The 
light  of  a  clear  morning  of  late  autumn  had  stolen  into  the 
room  while  I  slept,  and  glimmered  on  something  that  lay 
upon  the  bed.  It  was  some  time  before  I  could  believe  that 
my  troubled  eyes  were  not  the  sport  of  one  of  those  odd  illu- 
sions that  come  of  mingled  sleep  and  waking.  But  by  the 
golden  hilt  and  rusted  blade  I  was  at  length  convinced, 
although  the  scabbard  was  gone,  that  I  saw  my  own  sword. 
It  lay  by  my  left  side,  with  the  hilt  towards  my  hand.  But 
the  moment  I  turned  a  little  to  take  it  in  my  right  hand,  I 
forgot  all  about  it  in  a  far  more  bewildering  discovery,  which 
fixed  me  staring  half  in  terror,  half  in  amazement,  so  that 
again  for  a  moment  I  disbelieved  in  my  waking  condition. 
On  the  other  pillow  lay  the  face  of  a  lovely  girl.  I  felt  as  if 
I  had  seen  it  before — whether  only  in  the  just  vanished  dream, 
I  could  not  tell.  But  the  maiden  of  my  dream  never  comes 
back  to  me  with  any  other  features  or  with  any  other  expres- 
sion than  those  which  I  now  beheld.  There  was  an  ineffable 
mingling  of  love  and  sorrow  on  the  sweet  countenance.  The 
girl  was  dead  asleep,  but  evidently  dreaming,  for  tears  were 
flowing  from  under  her  closed  lids.  For  a  time  I  was  unable 
even  to  think;  when  thought  returned,  I  was  afraid  to- move. 
All  at  once  the  face  of  Mary  Osborne  dawned  out  of  the 
vision  before  me — how  difierent,  how  glorified  from  its  waking 
condition !  It  was  perfectly  lovely — transfigured  by  the  un- 
checked outflow  of  feeling.  The  recognition  brought  me  to 
my  senses  at  once.  I  did  not  waste  a  single  thought  in  specu- 
lating how  the  mistake  had  occurred,  for  there  was  not  a  mo- 
ment to  be  lost.      I  must  be  wise  to  shield  her,  and  chiejly, 


A  WAKING.  331 

as  much  as  might  be,  from  the   miserable  confusion  which 
her   own    discovery   of   the   untoward    fact   would   occasion 
her.     At  first  I  thought  it  would   be   best   to   lie  perfectly 
still,  in   order  that  she,  at  length  awaking  and  discovering 
where  she  was,   but  finding   me   fast   asleep,   might   escape 
with   the    conviction    that    the   whole    occurrence   remained 
her  own   secret.      I  made  the  attempt,  but   I  need   hardly 
say  that  never  before  or  since  have  I   found   myself   in   a 
situation  half  so  perplexing;   and  in  a  few  moments  I  was 
seized  with  such  a  trembling  that  I  was  compelled  to  turn  my 
thoughts  to  the  only  other  possible  plan.     As  I  reflected,  the 
absolute  necessity  of  attempting  it  became  more  and  more  ap- 
parent.    In  the  first  place,  when  she  woke  and  saw  me,  she 
might  scream  and  be  heard ;  in  the  next,  she  might  be  seen 
as  she  left  the  room,  or,  unable  to  find  her  way,  might  be 
involved  in  great  consequent  embarrassment.     But,  if  I  could 
gather  all  my  belongings,  and,  without  aw'aking  her,  escape 
by  the  stair  to  the  roof,  she  would  be  left  to  suppose  that  she 
had  but  mistaken  her  chamber,  and  would,  I  hoped,  remain  in 
ignorance  that  she  had  not  passed  the  night  in  it  alone.     I 
dared  one  more  peep  into  her  face.     The  light  and  the  loveli- 
ness of  her  dream  had  passed ;  I  should  not  now^  have  had  to 
look  twice  to  know  that  it  was  Mary  Osborne ;  but  never  more 
could  I  see  in  hers  a  common  face.     She  was  still  fast  asleep, 
and,  stealthy  as  a  beast  of  prey,  I  began  to  make  my  escape. 
At  the  first  movement,  however,  my  perplexity  was  redoubled, 
for  again  my  hand  fell  on  the  sw^ord  which  I  had  forgotten, 
and  question  after  question  as  to  how  they  were  together,  and 
together  there,  darted  through  my  bewildered  brain.     Could 
a  third  person  have  come  and  laid  the  sword  between  us?     I 
had  no  time,  however,  to  answer  one  of  my  own  questions. 
Hardly  knowing  which  was  better,  or  if  there  was  a  better,  I 
concluded  to  take  the  weapon  with  me,  moved  in  part  by  the 
fact  that  I  had  found  it  where  I  had  lost  it,  but  influenced  far 
more  by  its  association  with  this  night  of  marvel. 

Having  gathered  my  garments  together,  and  twice  glanced 
around  me — once  to  see  that  I  left  nothing  behind,  and  once 


332  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

to  take  farewell  of  the  peaceful  ftice,  which  had  never  moved— 
I  opened  the  little  door  in  the  wall,  and  made  my  strange 
retreat  up  the  stair.  My  heart  was  beating  so  violently  from 
the  fear  of  her  waking,  that  when  the  door  was  drawn  to 
behind  me,  I  had  to  stand  for  what  seemed  minutes  before  1 
was  able  to  ascend  the  steep  stair,  and  step  from  its  darkness 
into  the  clear  frosty  shine  of  the  autumn  sun,  brilliant  upon 
the  leads  wet  with  the  torrents  of  the  preceding  night. 

I  found  a  sheltered  spot  by  the  chimney-stack,  where  no  one 
could  see  me  from  below,  and  proceeded  to  dress  myself — 
assisted  in  my  very  imperfect  toilet  by  the  welcome  discovery 
of  a  pool  of  rain  in  a  depression  of  the  lead-covered  rooft 
But  alas,  before  I  had  finished,  I  found  that  I  had  brought 
only  one  of  my  shoes  away  with  me !  This  settled  the  ques- 
tion I  was  at  the  moment  debating — whether,  namely,  it  would 
be  better  to  go  home,  or  to  find  some  way  of  reaching  the 
library.  I  put  my  remaining  shoe  in  my  pocket,  and  set  out 
to  discover  a  descent.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  get  down 
into  the  little  gallery,  but  it  communicated  on  both  sides  im- 
mediately with  bed-rooms,  which  for  anything  I  knew  might 
be  occupied ;  and  besides,  I  was  unwilling  to  enter  the  house 
for  fear  of  encountering  some  of  the  domestics.  But  I  knew 
more  of  the  place  now,  and  had  often  speculated  concerning 
the  odd  position  and  construction  of  an  outside  stair  in  the 
first  court,  close  to  the  chapel,  with  its  landing  at  the  door  of 
a  room  en  suite  with  those  of  Sir  Giles  and  Lady  Brotherton. 
It  was  for  a  man  an  easy  drop  to  this  landing :  quiet  as  a 
cat,  I  crept  over  the  roof,  let  myself  down,  crossed  the  court 
swiftly,  drew  back  the  bolt  which  alone  secured  the  wicket, 
and,  with  no  greater  mishap  than  the  unavoidable  wetting  of 
shoeless  feet,  was  soon  safe  in  my  own  room,  exchanging  my 
evening  for  a  morning  dress.  When  I  looked  at  my  watch, 
I  found  it  nearly  seven  o'clock. 

I  was  so  excited  and  be-^vildered  by  the  adventures  I  had 
gone  through,  that,  from  very  commonness,  all  the  things 
about  me  looked  alien  and  strange.  I  had  no  feeling  of  rela- 
tion to  the  world  of  ordinary  life.     The  first  thing  I  did  was 


A  WAKING.  333 

to  hang  my  sword  in  its  own  old  place,  and  the  next  to  take 
down  the  bit  of  tapestry  from  the  opposite  wall,  which  I  pro- 
ceeded to  examine  in  the  light  of  my  recollection  of  that  round 
the  denuded  door.  Room  was  left  for  not  even  a  single  doubt 
as  to  the  relation  between  this  and  that :  they  had  been 
wrought  in  one  and  the  same  piece  by  ffxir  fingers  of  some 
long-vanished  time. 


834  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   XLIL 

A   TALK    ABOUT    SUICIDE. 

In  the  same  excited  mood,  but  repressing  it  with  all  the 
energy  I  could  gather,  I  returned  to  the  Hall,  and  made  my 
way  to  the  library.     There  Charley  soon  joined  me. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  to  breakfast  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I've  been  home  and  changed  my  clothes,"  I  answered.  "  I 
couldn't  well  appear  in  a  tail-coat.  It's  bad  enough  to  have 
to  wear  such  an  ugly  thing  by  candle-light." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  he  asked  again,  after  an 
interval  of  silence,  which  I  judge  from  the  question  must  have 
been  rather  a  long  one. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  me,  Charley  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell.     You  don't  seem  yourself,  somehow." 

I  do  not  know  what  answer  I  gave  him,  but  I  knew  myself 
what  was  the  matter  with  me  well  enough.  The  form  and 
face  of  the  maiden  of  my  dream,  the  Athanasia  lost  that  she 
might  be  found,  blending  with  the  face  and  form  of  Mary 
Osborne,  filled  my  imagination  so  that  I  could  think  of  nothing 
else.  Gladly  would  I  have  been  rid  of  even  Charley's  com- 
pany, that  while  my  hands  were  busy  with  the  books,  my 
heart  might  brood  at  will  now  upon  the  lovely  dream,  now 
upon  the  lovely  vision  to  which  I  awoke  from  it,  and  which, 
had  it  not  glided  into  the  forms  of  the  foregone  dream  and 
possessed  it  with  itself,  would  have  banished  it  altogether.  At 
length  I  was  aware  of  light  steps  and  sweet  voices  in  the  next 
room,  and  Mary  and  Clara  presently  entered. 

How  came  it  that  the  face  of  the  one  had  lost  the  half  of 
its  radiance,  and  the  face  of  the  other  had  gathered  all  that 
the  former  had  lost?  Mary's  countenance  was  as  still  as 
ever ;  there  was  not  in  it  a  single  ray  of  light  beyond  its  usual 
expression;   but  I  had  become  more  capable  of  reading  it, 


A  TALK   ABOUT   SUICIDE.  335 

for  tlie  coalescence  of  the  face  of  my  dream  with  her  dreaming 
face  had  given  me  its  key ;  and  I  was  now  so  far  from  in- 
different, that  I  was  afraid  to  look  for  fear  of  betraying  the 
attraction  I  now  found  it  exercise  over  me.  Seldom,  surely,  has 
a  man  been  so  long  familiar  with  and  careless  of  any  counte- 
nance to  find  it  all  at  once  an  object  of  absorbing  interest ! 
The  very  fact  of  its  want  of  revelation  added  immensely  to  its 
power  over  me  now — for  was  I  not  in  its  secret  ?  Did  I  not 
know  what  a  lovely  soul  hid  behind  that  unexpressive  coun- 
tenance? Did  I  not  know  that  it  was  as  the  veil  of  the  Holy  of 
Holies,  at  times  reflecting  only  the  light  of  the  seven  golden 
lamps  in  the  holy  place ;  at  others  almost  melted  away  in  the 
rush  of  the  radiance  unspeakable  from  the  hidden  and  holier 
side— the  region  whence  come  the  revelations?  To  draw 
through  it  if  but  once  the  feeblest  glimmer  of  the  light  I  had 
but  once  beheld,  seemed  an  ambition  worthy  of  a  life.  Know- 
ing her  power  of  reticence,  however,  and  of  withdrawing  from 
the  outer  courts  into  the  penetralia  of  her  sanctuary,  guessing 
also  at  something  of  the  aspect  in  which  she  regarded  me,  I 
dared  not  make  any  such  attempt.  But  I  resolved  to  seize 
what  opportunity  might  offer  of  convincing  her  that  I  was  not 
so  far  out  of  sympathy  with  her  as  to  be  unworthy  of  holding 
closer  converse ;  and  I  now  began  to  feel  distressed  at  what  had 
given  me  little  trouble  before,  namely,  that  she  should  suppose 
me  the  misleader  of  her  brother,  while  I  knew  that,  however 
far  I  might  be  from  an  absolute  belief  in  things  which  she 
seemed  never  to  have  doubted,  I  was  yet  in  some  measure  the 
means  of  keeping  him  from  flinging  aside  the  last  cords  which 
held  him  to  the  faith  of  his  fathers.  But  I  would  not  lead  in 
any  such  direction,  partly  from  the  fear  of  hypocrisy,  partly 
from  horror  at  the  idea  of  making  capital  of  what  little  faith 
I  had.  But  Charley  himself  afforded  me  an  opportunity 
which  I  could  not,  whatever  my  scrupulosity,  well  avoid. 

"  Have  you  ever  looked  into  that  little  book,  Charley  ?"  I 
said,  finding  in  my  hands  an  early  edition  of  the   Christian  ■» 
Morals  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne— I  wanted  to  say  somethiug, 
that  I  might  not  appear  distraught. 


336  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  indifference,  as  he  glanced  at  the 
title  page.     "  Is  it  anything  particular  ?" 

"  Everything  he  writes,  however  whimsical  in  parts,  is  well 
worth  more  than  mere  reading,"  I  answered.  "  It  is  a  strangely 
latinized  style,  but  has  its  charm  notwithstanding." 

He  was  turning  over  the  leaves  as  I  spoke.  Receiving  no 
response,  I  looked  up.  He  seemed  to  have  come  upon  some- 
thing which  had  attracted  him. 

"  What  have  you  found  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Here's  a  chapter  on  the  easiest  way  of  putting  a  stop  to  it 
all,"  he  answered. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  He  was  a  medical  man — ^wasn't  he  ?  I'm  ashamed  to  say 
I  know  nothing  about  him." 

"  Yes,  certainly  he  was." 

"  Then  he  knew  what  he  was  about." 

"  As  well  probably  as  any  man  of  his  profession  at  the 
time." 

"  He  recommends  drowning,"  said  Charley,  without  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  book. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  for  suicide." 

"  Nonsense.  He  was  the  last  man  to  favor  that.  You  must 
make  a  mistake.     He  was  a  thoroughly  Christian  man." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that.     Hear  this." 

He  read  the  following  passages  from  the  beginning  of  the 
thirteenth  section  of  the  second  part : — 

"  With  what  shift  and  pains  we  come  into  the  world,  we 
remember  not ;  but  'tis  commonly  found  no  easy  matter  to  get 
out  of  it.  Many  have  studied  to  exasperate  the  ways  of  death, 
but  fewer  hours  have  been  spent  to  soften  that  necessity," — 
"  Ovid,  the  old  heroes,  and  the  Stoics,  who  were  so  afraid  of 
drowning,  as  dreading  thereby  the  extinction  of  their  soul, 
which  they  conceived  to  be  a  fire,  stood  probably  in  fear  of  an 
easier  way  of  death ;  wherein  the  water,  entering  the  posses- 
lions  of  air,  makes  a  temporary  suffocation,  and  kills  as  it 
were  without  a  fever.    Surely  many,  who  have  had  the  spirit 


A   TALK   ABOUT   SUICIDE.  337 

to  destroy  themselves,  have  not  been  ingenious  in  the  contri- 
vance thereof." — "Cato  is  much  to  be  pitied,  who  mangled 
himself  with  poniards ;  and  Hannibal  seems  more  subtle,  who 
carried  his  delivery,  not  in  the  point  but  the  pommel  of  his 
sword." 

"  Poison,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  as  he  ended  the  extract. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  story,  if  you  remember,"  I  answered ;  "  but 
I  don't  see  that  Sir  Thomas  is  favoring  suicide.  Not  at  all. 
What  he  writes  there  is  merely  a  speculation  on  the  compara- 
tive ease  of  different  modes  of  dying.     Let  me  see  it." 

I  took  the  book  from  his  hands,  and,  glancing  over  the 
essay,  read  the  closing  passage. 

"  But  to  learn  to  die,  is  better  than  to  study  the  ways  of 
dying.  Death  will  find  some  ways  to  untie  or  cut  the  most 
gordian  knots  of  life,  and  make  men's  miseries  as  mortal  as 
themselves :  whereas  evil  spirits,  as  undying  substances,  are 
inseparable  from  their  calamities ;  and,  therefore,  they  ever- 
lastingly struggle  under  their  angustias,  and  bound  up  with 
immortality  can  never  get  out  of  themselves." 

"  There !  I  told  you  so  !"  cried  Charley.  "  Don't  you  see  ? 
He  is  the  most  cunning  arguer — beats  Despair,  in  the  Fairy 
Queen,  hollow  !" 

By  this  time,  either  attracted  by  the  stately  flow  of  Sir 
Thomas's  speech,  or  by  the  tone  of  our  disputation,  the  two 
girls  had  drawn  nearer,  and  were  listening. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Charley?"  I  said,  perceiving  however 
the  hold  I  had  by  my  further  quotation  given  him. 

"  First  of  all,  he  tells  you  the  easiest  way  of  dying,  and 
then  informs  you  that  it  ends  all  your  troubles.  He  is  too 
cunning  to  say  in  so  many  words  that  there  is  no  hereafter, 
but  what  else  can  he  wish  you  to  understand  when  he  says 
that  in  dying  we  have  the  advantage  over  the  evil  spirits,  who 
cannot  by  death  get  rid  of  their  sufferings  ?  I  will  read  this 
book,"  he  added,  closing  it,  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  I  said;  "for  although  I  confess  you 

are  logically  right  in  your  conclusions,  I   know  Sir  Thomas 

did  not  mean  anything  of  the  sort.     He  was  only  misled  by 
22 


338  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

his  love  of  antithesis  into  a  hasty  and  illogical  remark.  The 
whole  tone  of  his  book  is  against  such  a  conclusion.  Besides, 
I  do  not  doubt  he  was  thinking  only  of  good  people,  for  whom 
he  believed  all  suficring  over  at  their  death." 

*'  But  I  don't  see,  supposing  he  does  believe  in  immortality, 
why  you  should  be  so  anxious  about  his  orthodoxy  on  the 
other  point.  Didn't  Dr.  Donne,  as  good  a  man  as  any,  I  pre- 
sume, argue  on  the  part  of  the  suicide?" 

"  I  have  not  read  Dr.  Donne's  essay,  but  I  suspect  the 
obli(]uity  of  it  has  been  much  exaggerated." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  I  never  saw  any  argument  worth  the 
name  on  the  other  side.  We  have  plenty  of  expressions  of 
horror — but  those  are  not  argument.  Indeed,  the  mass  of  the 
vulgar  are  so  afraid  of  dying,  that,  apparently  in  terror  lest 
suicide  should  prove  infectious,  they  treat  in  a  brutal  manner 
the  remains  of  the  man  who  has  only  had  the  courage  to  free 
himself  from  a  burden  too  hard  for  him  to  bear.  It  is  all 
selfishness — nothing  else.  They  love  their  paltry  selves  so 
much,  that  they  count  it  a  greater  sin  to  kill  one's  self  than 
to  kill  another  man — which  seems  to  me  absolutely  devilish. 
Therefore,  the  vox  populi,  whether  it  be  the  vox  Dei  or  not,  is 
not  nonsense  merely,  but  absolute  wickedness.  Why  shouldn't 
a  man  kill  himself?" 

Clara  was  looking  on  rather  than  listening,  and  her  interest 
seemed  that  of  amusement  only.  Mary's  eyes  were  wide-fixed 
on  the  face  of  Charley,  evidently  tortured  to  find  that  to  the 
other  enormities  of  his  unbelief  was  to  be  added  the  justification 
of  suicide.  His  habit  of  arguing  was  doubtless  well  enough 
known  to  her  to  leave  room  for  the  mitigating  possibility  that 
he  might  be  arguing  only  for  argument's  sake,  but  what  he 
said  could  not  but  be  shocking  to  her  upon  any  supposition. 

I  was  not  ready  with  an  answer.  Clara  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  It's  a  cowardly  thing,  anyhow,"  she  said. 

"How  do  you  make  that  out.  Miss  Clara?"  asked  Charley. 
"  I'm  aware  it's  the  general  opinion,  but  I  don't  see  it  myself." 

"  It's  surely  cowardly  to  run  away  in  that  fashion," 


A   TALK   ABOUT  SUICIDE.  339 

"  For  my  part,"  returned  Charley,  "  I  feel  that  it  requires 
more  courage  than  I've  got,  and  hence  it  comes,  I  suppose, 
that  I  admire  any  one  who  has  the  pluck." 

"  What  vulgar  words  you  use,  Mr.  Charles !"   said  Clara. 

"  Besides,"  he  went  on,  heedless  of  her  remark,  "  a  man 
may  want  to  escape— not  from  his  duties — he  mayn't  know 
what  they  are — but  from  his  own  weakness  and  shame." 

"  But,  Charley  dear,"  said  Mary,  with  a  great  light  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  rest  of  her  face  as  still  as  a  sunless  pond,  "  you 
don't  think  of  the  sin  of  it.  I  know  you  are  only  talking 
but  some  things  oughtn't  to  be  talked  of  lightly." 

"  What  makes  it  a  sin  ?  It's  not  mentioned  in  the  Ten 
Commandments,"  said  Charley. 

"  Surely  it's  against  the  will  of  God,  Charley  dear." 

"  He  hasn't  said  anything  about  it,  anyhow.  And  why 
should  I  have  a  thing  forced  upon  me  whether  I  will  or  no, 
and  then  be  pulled  up  for  throwing  it  away  when  I  found  it 
troublesome  ?" 

"  Surely  I  don't  quite  understand  you,  Charley." 

"  Well,  if  I  must  be  more  explicit — I  was  never  asked 
whether  I  chose  to  be  made  or  not.  I  never  had  the  condi- 
tions laid  before  me.  Here  I  am,  and  I  can't  help  myself — 
so  far,  I  mean,  as  that  here  I  am." 

"  But  life  is  a  good  thing,"  said  Mary,  evidently  struggling 
with  an  almost  overpowering  horror. 

"  I  don't  know  that.  My  impression  is  that  if  I  had  been 
asked " 

"  But  that  couldn't  be,  you  know." 

"  Then  it  wasn't  fair.  But  why  couldn't  I  be  made  for  a 
moment  or  two,  long  enough  to  have  the  thing  laid  before  me, 
and  be  asked  whether  I  would  accept  it  or  not?  My  impres- 
sion is  that  I  would  have  said — No,  thank  you ; — that  is,  if  it 
was  fairly  put." 

I  hastened  to  offer  a  remark,  in  the  hope  of  softening  the 
pain  such  flippancy  must  cause  her. 

"  And  my  impression  is,  Charley,"  I  said,  "  that  if  such 
had  been  possible " 


340  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDB. 

''  Of  course,"  he  interrupted,  "  the  God  you  believe  in  could 
have  made  me  for  a  minute  or  two.  He  can,  I  suppose,  un- 
make me  now  when  he  likes." 

"  Yes  ;  but  could  he  have  made  you  all  at  once  capable  of 
understanding  his  plans,  aud  your  own  future  ?  Perhaps  that 
is  what  he  is  doing  now — making  you,  by  all  you  are  going 
through,  capable  of  understanding  them.  Certainly  the  ques- 
tion could  not  have  been  put  to  you  before  you  were  able  to 
comprehend  it,  and  this  may  be  the  only  way  to  make  you 
able.  Surely  a  being  who  could  make  you  had  a  right  to  risk 
the  chance,  if  I  may  be  allowed  such  an  expression,  of  your 
being  satisfied  in  the  end  with  what  he  saw  to  be  good — so 
good  indeed  that,  if  we  accept  the  New  Testament  story,  he 
would  have  been  willing  to  go  through  the  same  troubles 
himself  for  the  same  end." 

"  No,  no ;  not  the  same  troubles,"  he  objected.  "  Accord- 
ing to  the  story  to  which  you  refer,  Jesus  Christ  was  free  from 
all  that  alone  makes  life  unendurable — the  bad  inside  you, 
that  will  come  outside  whether  you  will  or  no." 

"  I  admit  your  objection.  As  to  the  evil  coming  out,  I 
suspect  it  is  better  it  should  come  out,  so  long  as  it  is  there. 
But  the  end  is  not  yet ;  and  still  I  insist  the  probability  is, 
that  if  you  could  know  it  all  now,  you  would  say  with  sub- 
mission, if  not  with  hearty  concurrence — 'Thy  will  be  done.'" 

"  I  have  known  people  who  could  say  that  without  knowing 
it  all  now,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  said  Mary. 

I  had  often  called  her  by  her  Christian  name,  but  she  had 
never  accepted  the  familiarity. 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Charley ;  "  but  i'm  not  one  of  those." 

"  If  you  would  but  give  in,"  said  his  sister,  "  you  would—) 
in  the  end,  I  mean — say,  '  It  is  well.'     I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  Yes — perhaps  I  might — after  all  the  suffering  had  been 
forced  upon  me,  and  was  over  at  last — when  I  had  beeq 
thoroughly  exhausted  and  cowed,  that  is." 

"  Which  wouldn't  satisfy  any  thinking  soul,  Charley — much 
less  God,"  I  said.     "  But  if  there  be  a  God  at  all " 

Mary  gave  a  slight  inarticulate  cry. 


A   TALK   ABOUT   SUICIDE.  341 

"  Dear  Miss  Osborne,"  I  said,  "  I  beg  you  will  not  misun- 
derstand me.  I  cannot  be  sure  about  it  as  you  are — I  wish  I 
could — but  I  am  not  disputing  it  in  the  least ;  I  am  only 
trying  to  make  my  argument  as  strong  as  I  can.  I  was  going 
to  say  to  Charley — not  to  you — that  if  there  be  a  God,  He 
would  not  have  compelled  us  to  be,  except  with  the  absolute 
foreknowledge  that  when  we  knew  all  about  it,  we  would  cer- 
tainly declare  ourselves  ready  to  go  through  it  all  again,  if 
need  should  be,  in  order  to  attain  the  known  end  of  His  high 
calling." 

"  But  isn't  it  very  presumptuous  to  assert  anything  about 
God  which  He  has  not  revealed  in  his  word  ?"  said  Mary,  in  a 
gentle,  subdued  voice,  and  looking  at  me  with  a  sweet  doubt- 
fiilness  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  only  insisting  on  the  perfection  of  God — as  far  as  I 
can  understand  perfection,"  I  answered. 

"  But  may  not  the  perfection  of  God  be  something  very  dif- 
ferent from  anything  we  can  understand  V 

"  I  will  go  farther,"  I  returned.  "  It  must  be  something 
that  we  cannot  understand — but  different  from  what  we  can 
understand  by  being  greater,  not  by  being  less." 

"  Many't  it  be  such  that  we  can't  understand  it  at  all?"  she 
insisted. 

"  Then  how  should  we  ever  worship  Him  ?  How  should  we 
ever  rejoice  in  Him  ?  Surely  it  is  because  you  see  God  to  be 
good " 

"  Or  fancy  you  do,"  interposed  Charley. 

"  Or  fancy  you  do,"  I  assented,  "  that  you  love  Him — not 
merely  because  you  are  told  He  is  good.  The  Feejee  islander 
might  assert  his  God  to  be  good,  but  would  that  make  you 
love  him  ?  If  you  heard  that  a  great  power,  away  somewhere, 
who  had  nothing  to  do  with  you  at  all,  was  very  good,  would 
that  make  you  able  to  love  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  would,"  said  Mary,  decidedly.  "  It  is  only  a  good 
man  who  would  see  that  God  was  good." 

"  There  you  argue  entirely  on  my  side.  It  must  be  because 
you  supposed  his   goodness  what  you  called  goodness — not 


342  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

something  else — that  you  could  love  him  on  testimony.  But 
even  then,  your  love  could  not  be  of  that  mighty,  absorbing 
kind  which  alone  you  would  think  fit  between  you  and  your 
God.  It  would  not  be  loving  him  with  all  your  heart  and 
soul  and  strength  and  mind — would  it?  It  would  be  loving 
him  second-hand — not  because  of  himself,  seen  and  known  by 
yourself." 

"  But  Charley  does  not  even  love  God  second-hand,"  she 
said,  with  a  despairing  mournfulness. 

"  Perhaps  because  he  is  very  anxious  to  love  Him  first-hand, 
and  what  you  tell  him  about  God  does  not  seem  to  him  to 
be  good.  Surely  neither  man  nor.  woman  can  love  because  of 
what  seems  not  good !  I  confess  one  may  love  in  spite  of  what 
is  bad,  but  it  must  be  because  of  other  things  that  are  good." 

She  was  silent. 

"  However  goodness  may  change  its  forms,"  I  went  on,  "  it 
must  still  be  goodness ;  only  if  we  are  to  adore  it,  we  must  see 
something  of  what  it  is — of  itself.  And  the  goodness  we  can- 
not see,  the  eternal  goodness,  high  above  us  as  the  heavens  are 
above  the  earth,  must  still  be  a  goodness  that  includes, 
absorbs,  elevates,  purifies  all  our  goodness,  not  tramples  upon 
it  and  calls  it  wickedness.  For  if  not  such,  then  we  have 
nothing  in  common  with  God,  and  what  we  call  goodness  is 
not  of  God.  He  has  not  even  ordered  it ;  or,  if  He  has.  He 
has  ordered  it  only  to  order  the  contrary  afterwards  ;  and  there 
is,  in  reality,  no  real  goodness — at  least  in  Him  ;  and  if  not  in 
Him,  of  whom  we  spring — where  then  ? — and  what  becomes 
of  ours,  poor  as  it  is?" 

My  reader  will  see  that  I  had  already  thought  much  about 
these  things ;  although,  I  suspect,  I  have  now  not  only 
expressed  them  far  better  than  I  could  have  expressed  them 
in  conversation,  but  with  a  degree  of  clearness  which  must  be 
owing  to  the  further  continuance  of  the  habit  of  reflecting  on 
these  and  cognate  subjects.  Deep  in  my  mind,  however, 
something  like  this  lay ;  and  in  some  manner  like  this  I  tried 
to  express  it. 

Finding   she   continued   silent,  and   that  Charley  did   not 


A  TALK   ABOU?:   SUICIDE.  343 

appear  inclined  to  renew  the  contest,  anxious  also  to  leave  no 
embarrassing  silence  to  choke  the  channel  now  open  between 
us — I  mean  Mary  and  myself— I  returned  to  the  original 
question. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Charley — and  it  follows  from  all  we  have 
been  saying — that  the  sin  of  suicide  lies  just  in  this,  that  it  is 
an  utter  want  of  faith  in  God.  I  confess  I  do  not  see  any 
other  ground  on  which  to  condemn  it — provided  always,  that 
the  man  has  no  others  dependent  upon  him,  none  for  whom 
he  ouejht  to  live  and  work." 

"But  does  a  man  owe  nothing  to  himself?"  said  Clara. 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of,"  I  replied.  "  I  am  under  no 
obligation  to  myself.  How  can  I  divide  myself,  and  say  that 
the  one-half  of  me  is  indebted  to  the  other  ?  To  my  mind, 
it  is  a  mere  fiction  of  speech." 

"  But  whence  then  should  such  a  fiction  arise  ?"  objected 
Charley,  willing,  perhaps,  to  defend  Clara. 

"  From  the  dim  sense  of  a  real  obligation,  I  suspect,  the 
object  of  which  is  mistaken.  I  suspect  it  really  springs  f-om 
our  relation  to  the  unknow^n  God,  so  vaguely  felt  that  a  false 
form  is  readily  accepted  for  its  embodiment  by  a  being  who, 
in  ignorance  of  its  nature,  is  yet  aware  of  its  presence.  I 
mean  that  what  seems  an  obligation  to  self  is  in  reality  a 
dimly  apprehended  duty — an  obligation  to  the  unknown  God, 
and  not  to  self,  in  which  lies  no  causing,  therefore  no  obli- 
gating power." 

"But  w^hy  say  the  unknown  God,  Mr.  Cumbermede?"  asked 
Mary. 

"  Because  I  do  not  believe  that  any  one  who  knew  Him 
could  possibly  attribute  to  himself  what  belonged  to  Him — 
could,  I  mean,  talk  of  an  obligation  to  himself,  when  that 
obligation  was  to  God." 

How  far  Mary  Osborne  followed  the  argument  or  agreed 
with  it  I  cannot  tell ;  but  she  gave  me  a  look  of  something  like 
gratitude,  and  my  heart  felt  too  big  for  its  closed  chamber. 

At  this  moment  the  housemaid,  who  had  along  with  the 
carpenter  assisted  me  in  the  library,  entered  the  room.     She 


344  WILFRID   CUMBKRMEDE. 

was  rather  a  forward  girl,  and  I  suppose  presumed  on  our 
acquaintance  to  communicate  directly  with  myself  instead  of 
going  to  the  housekeeper.  Seeing  her  approach  as  if  she 
wanted  to  speak  to  me,  I  went  to  meet  her.  She  handed  me 
a  small  ring,  saying,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  I  found  this  in  your  room,  sir,  and  thought  it  better  to 
bring  it  to  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said,  putting  it  at  once  on  my  little  finger  ; 
"  I  am  glad  you  found  it." 

Charley  and  Clara  had  begun  talking.  I  believe  Clara  was 
trying  to  make  Charley  give  her  the  book  he  had  pocketed, 
imagining  it  really  of  the  character  he  had,  half  in  sport,  pro- 
fessed to  believe  it.  But  Mary  had  caught  sight  of  the  ring, 
and,  with  a  bewildered  expression  on  her  countenance,  was 
making  a  step  towards  me.  I  put  my  finger  to  my  lips,  and 
gave  her  a  look  by  which  I  succeeded  in  arresting  her. 
Utterly  perplexed,  I  believe,  she  turned  away  towards  the 
bookshelves  behind  her.  I  went  into  the  next  room,  and 
called  Charley. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  not  go  on  with  this  talk,"  I  said. 
"You  are  very  imprudent  indeed,  Charley,  to  be  always 
bringing  up  subjects  that  tend  to  widen  the  gulf  between 
you  and  your  sister.  When  I  have  a  chance,  I  do  what  I  can 
to  make  her  doubt  whether  you  are  so  far  wrong  as  they  think 
you,  but  you  must  give  her  time.  All  your  kind  of  thought 
is  so  new  to  her  that  your  words  cannot  possibly  convey  to  her 
what  is  in  your  mind.  If  only  she  were  not  so  afraid  of  me  I 
But  I  think  she  begins  to  trust  me  a  little." 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  returned.  "  Her  head  is  so  full  of  rub- 
bish!" 

"  But  her  heart  is  so  full  of  goodness !" 

"  I  wish  you  could  make  anything  of  her !  But  she  looks 
up  to  my  father  with  such  a  blind  adoration,  that  it  isn't  of  the 
slightest  use  attempting  to  put  an  atom  of  sense  into  her." 

"  I  should  indeed  despair  if  I  might  only  set  about  it  after 
yoiir  fashion.  You  always  seem  to  shut  your  eyes  to  the 
mental   condition  of  those  that  differ  from  you.     Instead  of 


A   TALK   ABOUT   SUICIDE.  345 

trying  to  understand  them  first,  which  gives  the  sole  possible 
chance  of  your  ever  making  them  understand  what  you  mean, 
you  care  only  to  present  your  opinions ;  and  that  you  do  in 
such  a  fashion  that  they  must  appear  to  them  false.  You 
even  make  yourself  seem  to  hold  these  for  very  love  of  their 
untruth  ;  and  thus  make  it  all  but  impossible  for  them  to 
shake  off  their  fetters :  every  truth  in  advance  of  what  they 
have  already  learned,  will  henceforth  come  to  them  associated 
with  your  presumed  backsliding  and  impenitence." 

"Goodness!  where  did  you  learn  their  slang?"  cried 
Charley.  "But  impenitence,  if  you  like, — not  backsliding. 
I  never  made  any  profession.  After  all,  however,  their  opin- 
ions don't  seem  to  hurt  them — I  mean  my  mother  and  sister." 

"  They  must  hurt  them,  if  only  by  hindering  their  growth. 
In  time,  of  course,  the  angels  of  the  heart  will  expel  the 
demons  of  the  brain ;  but  it  is  a  pity  the  process  should  be 
retarded  by  your  behaviour." 

"  I  know  I  am  a  brute,  Wilfrid.  I  will  try  to  hold  my 
tongue." 

"  Depend  upon  it,"  I  went  on,  "  whatever  such  hearts  can 
believe,  is,  as  believed  by  them,  to  be  treated  with  respect.  It 
is  because  of  the  truth  in  it,  not  because  of  the  falsehood,  that 
they  hold  it ;  and  when  you  speak  against  the  false  in  it,  you 
appear  to  them  to  speak  against  the  true ;  for  the  dogma  seems 
to  them  an  unanalyzable  unit.  You  assail  the  false  with  the 
recklessness  of  falsehood  itself,  careless  of  the  injury  you 
may  inflict  on  the  true." 

I  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Clara. 

"  If  you  gentlemen  don't  want  us  any  more,  we  had  better 
go,"  she  said. 

I  left  Charley  to  answer  her,  and  went  back  into  the  next 
room.  Mary  stood  where  I  had  left  her,  mechanically  shifting 
and  arranging  the  volumes  on  a  shelf  at  the  height  of  her 
eyes. 

"  I  think  this  is  your  ring.  Miss  Osborne,"  I  said,  in  a  low 
and  hurried  tone,  offering  it. 

Her  expression  at   first  was  only  of  questioning  surprise. 


346  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

when  suddenly  something  seemed  to  cross  her  mind ;  she 
turned  pale  as  death,  and  put  her  hand  on  the  bookshelves  as 
if  to  support  her;  as  suddenly  flushed  crimson  for  a  moment, 
and  again  turned  deadly  pale — all  before  I  could  speak. 

"Don't  ask  me  any  questions,  dear  Miss  Osborne,"  I  said. 
"  And,  please,  trust  me  this  far :  don't  mention  the  loss  of 
your  ring  to  any  one — except  it  be  your  mother.  Allow  me  to 
put  it  on  your  finger." 

She  gave  me  a  glance  I  cannot  and  would  not  describe.  It 
lies  treasured — for  ever,  God  grant! — in  the  secret  jewel-house 
of  my  heart.  She  lifted  a  trembling  left  hand,  and  doubtingly 
held — half  held  it  towards  me.  To  this  day  I  know  nothing 
of  the  stones  of  that  ring — not  even  their  color;  but  I  know 
I  should  know  it  at  once  if  I  saw  it.  My  hand  trembled  more 
than  hers  as  I  put  it  on  the  third  finger. 

What  followed,  I  do  not  know.  I  think  I  left  her  there  and 
went  into  the  other  room.  When  I  returned  a  little  after,  I 
know  she  was  gone.  From  that  hour,  not  one  word  ever 
passed  between  us  in  reference  to  the  matter.  The  best  of  my 
conjectures  remains  but  a  conjecture ;  I  know  how  the  sword 
got  there — nothing  more. 

I  did  not  see  her  again  that  day,  and  did  not  seem  .  to  want 
to  see  her,  but  worked  on  amongst  the  books  in  a  quiet  exalta- 
tion. My  being  seemed  tenfold  awake  and  alive.  My  thoughts 
dwelt  on  the  rarely  revealed  loveliness  of  my  Athanasia;  and 
although  I  should  have  scorned  unspeakably  to  take  the 
smallest  advantage  of  having  come  to  share  a  secret  with  her, 
could  not  help  rejoicing  in  the  sense  of  nearness  to  and  alone- 
ness  with  her  which  the  possession  of  that  secret  gave  me ; 
while  one  of  the  most  precious  results  of  the  new  love  which 
had  thus  all  at  once  laid  hold  upon  me,  was  the  feeling  — almost 
a  conviction — that  the  dream  was  not  a  web  self-wove  in  the 
loom  of  my  brain,  but  that  from  somewhere,  beyond  my  soul 
even,  an  influence  had  mingled  with  its  longings  to  in-form  the 
vision  of  that  night — to  be  as  it  were  a  creative  soul  to  what 
would  otherwise  have  been  but  loose,  chaotic,  and  shapeless 
vagaries  of  the  unguided  imagination.     The  events  of  that 


A   TALK   ABOUT   SUICIDE.  347 

night  were  as  the  sudden  opening  of  a  door  through  which  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  that  region  of  the  supernal  in  which, 
whatever  might  be  her  theories  concerning  her  experiences 
therein,  Mary  Osborne  certainly  lived,  if  ever  any  one  lived. 
The  degree  of  God's  presence  with  a  creature  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  that  creature's  interpretation  of  the  manner  in 
which  He  is  revealed.  The  great  question  is  whether  He  is 
revealed  or  no ;  and  a  strong  truth  can  carry  many  parasitical 
errors. 

I  felt  that  now  I  could  talk  freely  to  her  of  what  most  per- 
plexed me — not  so  much,  I  confess,  with  any  hope  that  she 
might  cast  light  on  my  difficulties,  as  in  the  assurance  that  she 
would  not  only  influence  me  to  think  purely  and  nobly,  but 
would  urge  me  in  the  search  after  God.  In  such  a  relation  of 
love  to  religion  the  vulgar  mind  will  ever  imagine  ground  for 
ridicule;  but  those  who  have  most  regarded  human  nature 
know  well  enough  that  the  two  have  constantly  manifested 
themselves  in  the  closest  relation ;  while  even  the  poorest  love 
is  the  enemy  of  selfishness  unto  the  death  ;  for  the  one  or  the 
other  must  give  up  the  ghost.  Not  only  must  God  be  in  all 
that  is  human,  but  of  it  He  must  be  the  root. 


>48  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE, 


CHAPTER  XLIIL 

THE   SWORD   IN   THE   SCALE. 

The  next  morning  Charley  and  I  went  as  usual  to  the 
library,  where  later  in  the  day  we  were  joined  by  the  two 
ladies.  It  was  long  before  our  eyes  once  met,  but  when  at  last 
they  did,  Mary  allowed  hers  to  rest  on  mine  for  just  one  mo- 
ment with  an  expression  of  dove-like  beseeching,  which  I  dared 
to  interpret  as  meaning — "Be  just  to  me."  If  she  read  mine, 
surely  she  read  there  that  she  was  safe  with  my  thoughts  as 
with  those  of  her  mother. 

Charley  and  I  worked  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  went  away 
in  the  last  of  the  twilight.  As  we  approached  the  gate  of  the 
park,  however,  I  remembered  I  had  left  behind  me  a  book  I 
had  intended  to  carry  home  for  comparison  with  a  copy  in  my 
possession  of  which  the  title-page  was  gone.  I  asked  Charley 
therefore  to  walk  on  and  give  my  man  some  directions  about 
Lilith,  seeing  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  propose  a  ride  on  the 
morrow,  while  I  went  back  to  fetch  it. 

Finding  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  leading  to  the  open 
gallery  ajar,  and  knowing  that  none  of  the  rooms  at  either  end 
of  it  were  occupied,  I  went  the  nearest  way,  and  thus  entered 
the  library  at  the  point  farthest  from  the  more  public  parts  of 
the  house.  The  book  I  sought  was  however  at  the  other  end 
of  the  suite,  for  I  had  laid  it  on  the  window-sill  of  the  room 
next  the  armory. 

As  I  entered  that  room,  and  while  I  crossed  it  towards  the 
glimmering  window,  I  heard  voices  in  the  armory,  and  soon 
distinguished  Clara's.  It  never  entered  my  mind  that  possibly 
I  ought  not  to  hear  what  might  be  said.  Just  as  I  reached 
the  window  I  w^as  arrested,  and  stood  stock-still ;  the  other 
voice  was  that  of  Geoffrey  Brotherton.  Before  my  self-posses- 
sion returned,  I  had  heard  what  follows : 


THE   SWORB   IN   THE   SCALE.  349 

"  I  am  certain  he  took  it,"  said  Clara.  "  I  didn't  see  him, 
of  course;  but  if  you  call  at  the  Moat  to-morrow,  ten  to  one. 
you  will  find  it  hanging  on  the  wall." 

"  I  knew  him  for  a  sneak,  but  never  took  him  for  a  thief  I 
would  have  lost  anything  out  of  the  house  rather  than  that 
sword !" 

"  Don't  you  mention  my  name  in  it.  If  you  do,  I  shall 
think  you — well,  I  will  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"And  if  I  don't,  what  then?" 

Before  I  heard  her  answer,  I  had  come  to  myself  I  had  no 
time  for  indignation  yet.  I  must  meet  Geofl^rey  at  once.  I 
would  not  however  have  him  know  I  had  overheard  any  of 
their  talk.  It  would  have  been  more  straightforward  to  allow 
the  fact  to  be  understood,  but  I  shrunk  from  giving  him  occa- 
sion for  accusing  me  of  an  eavesdropping  of  which  I  was  inno- 
cent. Besides,  I  had  no  wish  to  encounter  Clara  before  I 
understood  her  game,  which  I  need  not  say  was  a  mystery  to 
me.  What  end  could  she  have  in  such  duplicity  ?  I  had  had 
unpleasant  suspicions  of  the  truth  of  her  nature  before,  but 
could  never  have  suspected  her  of  baseness. 

I  stepped  quietly  into  the  further  room,  whence  I  returned, 
making  a  noise  with  the  door-handle,  and  saying, 

"  Are  you  there,  Miss  Coningham  ?  Could  you  help  me  to 
find  a  book  I  left  here  ?" 

There  was  silence;  but,  after  the  briefest  pause,  I  heard  the 
sound  of  her  dress  as  she  swept  hurriedly  out  into  the  gallery, 
I  advanced.  On  the  top  of  the  steps,  filling  the  doorway  of 
the  armory  in  the  faint  light  from  the  window,  appeared  the 
dim  form  of  Brotherton. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said.  "I  heard  a  lady's  voice,  and 
thought  it  was  Miss  Coningham's." 

"  I  cannot  compliment  your  ear,"  he  answered.  "  It  was 
one  of  the  maids.  I  had  just  rung  for  a  light.  I  presume  you 
are  Mr.  Cumbermede." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.  "  I  returned  to  fetch  a  book  I  forgot 
to  take  with  me.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  we've  been 
about  in  the  library  here  ?" 


350  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

**I  have  been  partially  informed  of  it,"  he  answered  stiffly. 
"  But  I  have  heard  also  that  you  contemplate  a  raid  upon  the 
armory.     I  beg  you  will  let  the  weapons  alone." 

I  had  said  something  of  the  sort  to  Clara  that  very  morning. 

"  I  have  a  special  regard  for  them,"  he  went  on :  "  and  I 
don't  want  them  meddled  with.  It's  not  every  one  knows  how 
to  handle  them.  Some  amongst  them  I  w^ould  not  have  injured 
for  their  weight  m  diamonds.  One  in  particular  I  should  like 
to  give  you  the  history  of— just  to  show  you  that  I  am  right  in 
being  careful  over  them. — Here  comes  the  light !" 

I  presume  it  had  been  hurriedly  arranged  between  them  as 
Clara  left  him  that  she  should  send  one  of  the  maids,  who  in 
consequence  made  her  appearance  with  a  candle.  Brotherton 
took  it  from  her  and  approached  the  wall. 

"  Why !  What  the  devil !  Some  one  has  been  meddling 
already,  I  find !  The  very  sword  I  speak  of  is  gone !  There's 
the  sheath  hanging  empty!  What  can  it  mean?  Do  you 
know  anything  of  this,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?" 

"I  do,  Mr.  Brotherton.  The  sword  to  which  that  sheath 
belongs  is  mine.     I  have  it." 

"  Yours  r  he  shouted ;  then  restraining  himself,  added  in  a 
tone  of  utter  contempt — "  This  is  rather  too  much.  Pray,  sir,  on 
what  grounds  do  you  lay  claim  to  the  smallest  atom  of  property 
within  these  walls  ?  My  father  ought  to  have  known  what  he 
was  about  when  he  let  you  have  the  run  of  the  house !  The  old 
books,  too!    By  heavens,  it's  too  much  !   I  always  thought " 

"  It  matters  little  to  me  what  you  think,  Mr.  Brotherton — 
so  little  that  I  do  not  care  to  take  any  notice  of  your  inso- 
lence  " 

"  Insolence !"  he  roared,  striding  towards  me,  as  if  he  would 
have  knocked  me  down. 

I  was  not  his  match  in  strength,  for  he  was  at  least  two 
inches  taller  than  I,  and  of  a  coarse-built,  powerful  frame. 
I  caught  a  light  rapier  from  the  wall,  and  stood  on  my  defence. 

"  Coward  !"  he  cried. 

"  There  are  more  where  this  came  from,"  I  answered,  point- 
ing to  the  wall. 


THE  SWORD   IN   THE   SCALE.  351 

He  made  no  move  towards  arming  himself,  but  stood 
glaring  at  me  in  a  white  rage. 

"  I  am  prepared  to  prove,"  I  answered  as  calmly  as  I  could, 
"  that  the  sword  to  which  you  allude  is  mine.  But  I  will  give 
you  no  explanation.  If  you  will  oblige  me  by  asking  your 
father  to  join  us,  I  will  tell  him  the  whole  story." 

"  I  will  have  a  warrant  out  against  you." 

"  As  you  please.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  mentioning  it. 
I  shall  be  ready.  I  have  the  sword  and  intend  to  keep  it. 
And  by  the  way,  T  had  better  secure  the  scabbard  as  well,"  I 
added,  as  with  a  sudden  spring  I  caught  it  also  from  the  wall, 
and  again  stood  prepared. 

He  ground  his  teeth  with  rage.  He  was  one  of  those  who, 
trusting  to  their  superior  strength,  are  not  much  afraid  of  a 
row,  but  cannot  face  cold  steel :  soldier  as  he  had  been,  it  made 
him  nervous. 

"  Insulted  in  my  own  house !"  he  snarled  from  beneath  his 
teeth. 

"  Your  father's  house,"  I  corrected.  "  Call  him,  and  I  will 
give  explanations." 

"  Damn  your  explanations !  Get  out  of  the  house,  you 
puppy ;  or  I'll  have  the  servants  up  and  have  you  ducked  in 
the  horse-pond." 

"  Bah !"  I  said.  "  There's  not  one  of  them  would  lay  hands 
on  me  at  your  bidding.  Call  your  father,  I  say,  or  I  will  go 
and  find  him  myself." 

He  broke  out  in  a  succession  of  oaths,  using  language  I 
had  heard  in  the  streets  of  London,  but  nowhere  else.  I  stood 
perfectly  still,  and  watchful.  All  at  once,  he  turned  and  went 
into  the  gallery,  over  the  balustrade  of  which  he  shouted, 

"  Martin !  Go  and  tell  my  father  to  come  here — to  the  armory 
— at  once.     Tell  him  there's  a  fellow  here  out  of  his  mind." 

I  remained  quiet,  with  my  scabbard  in  one  hand,  and  the 
rapier  in  the  other — a  dangerous  weapon  enough,  for  it  was, 
though  slight,  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  and  I  knew  it  for  a  bit 
of  excellent  temper.  Brotherton  stood  outside  waiting  for  his 
father.     In  a  few  moments  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  old  man. 


352  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Boys !  boys !"  he  cried ;  "  what  is  all  this  to-do  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  answered  Geoffrey,  trying  to  be  calm,  "  here's 
that  fellow  Cumberinede  confesses  to  have  stolen  the  most 
valuable  of  the  swords  out  of  the  armory — one  that's  been  in 
the  family  for  two  hundred  years,  and  says  he  means  to  keep  it.'* 

I  just  caught  the  word  liar  ere  it  escaped  my  lips:  I  >vould 
spare  the  son  in  his  father's  presence. 

"  Tut !  tut !"  said  Sir  Giles.  "  What  does  it  all  mean  ? 
You're  at  your  old  quarrelsome  tricks,  my  boy !  Keally  you 
ought  to  be  wiser  by  this  time!" 

As  he  spoke  he  entered  panting,  and  with  the  rubicund 
glow  beginning  to  return  upon  a  face  from  which  the  message 
had  evidently  banished  it. 

"  Tut !  tut !"  he  said  again,  half  starting  back  as  he  caught 
sight  of  me  with  the  weajDon  in  my  hand — "  What  is  it  all 
about,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?  I  thought  you  had  more  sense !" 

"  Sir  Giles,"  I  said,  "  I  have  not  confessed  to  have  stolen 
the  sword — only  to  have  taken  it." 

"  A  very  different  thing,"  he  returned,  trying  to  laugh. 
"  But  come  now ;  tell  me  all  about  it.  We  can't  have  quarrel- 
ling like  this,  you  know.    We  can't  have  pot-house  work  here." 

"  That  is  just  why  I  sent  for  you.  Sir  Giles,"  I  answered, 
replacing  the  rapier  on  the  wall.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  the 
whole  story." 

"  Let's  have  it  then." 

"  Mind  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  said  his  father 

"  Mr.  Brotherton,"  I  said,  "  I  offered  to  tell  the  story  to  Sir 
Giles — not  to  you." 

"You  offered!"  he  sneered.  "You  maybe  compelled — 
under  different  circumstances  by  and  by,  if  you  don't  mind 
what  you're  about." 

"  Come  now — no  more  of  this !"  said  Sir  Giles. 

Thereupon  I  began  at  the  beginning,  and  told  him  the  story 
of  the  sword,  as  I  have  already  given  it  to  my  reader.  He 
fidgeted  a  little,  but  Geoffrey  kept  himself  stock-still  during  the 
whole  of  the  narrative.   As  soon  as  I  had  ended  Sir  Giles  said : 


THE   SWORD   IN   THE   SCALE.  353 

"  And  you  think  poor  old  Close  actually  carried  off  your 
sword  !  Well,  he  was  an  odd  creature,  and  had  a  passion 
for  everything  that  could  kill.  The  poor  little  atomy  used  to 
carry  a  poniard  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  black  coat — as  if 
anybody  would  ever  have  thought  of  attacking  his  small  car- 
cass !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  He  was  simply  a  monomaniac  in  regard 
of  swords  and  daggers.  There,  Geoffrey !  The  sword  is  plainly 
his.  He  is  the  wronged  party  in  the  matter,  and  we  owe  him 
an  apology." 

"  I  believe  the  whole  to  be  a  pure  invention,"  said  Geoffrey, 
who  now  appeared  perfectly  calm. 

"  Mr.  Brotherton !"  I  began,  but  Sir  Giles  interposed. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !"  he  said,  and  turned  to  his  son.  "  My  boy, 
you  insult  your  father's  guest." 

"  I  will  at  once  prove  to  you,  sir,  how  unworthy  he  is  of  any 
forbearance,  not  to  say  protection  from  you.  Excuse  me  for 
one  moment." 

He  took  up  the  candle,  and  opening  the  little  door  at  the 
foot  of  the  winding  stair,  disappeared.  Sir  Giles  and  I  sat  in 
silence,  and  darkness  until  he  returned,  carrying  in  his  hand 
an  old  vellum-bound  book. 

"  I  dare  say  you  don't  know  this  manuscript,  sir,"  he  said, 
turning  to  his  father. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  answered  Sir  Giles.  "  What  is 
it  ?     Or  what  has  it  to  do  with  the  matter  in  hand  ?" 

"  Mr.  Close  found  it  in  some  corner  or  other,  and  used  to 
read  it  to  me  when  I  was  a  little  fellow.  It  is  a  description, 
and  in  most  cases  a  history  as  well,  of  every  weapon  in  the 
armory.  They  had  been  much  neglected,  and  a  great  many 
of  the  labels  were  gone,  but  those  which  were  left  referred  to 
numbers  in  the  book  heading  descriptions  which  corresponded 
exactly  to  the  weapons  on  which  they  were  found.  With  a 
little  trouble  he  had  succeeded  in  supplying  the  numbers  where 
they  were  missing,  for  the  descriptions  are  very  minute." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  perfect  self-possession. 

"  Well,,  Geoffrey,  I  ask  again,  what  has  all  this  to  do  with 
it?"  said  the  father. 
23 


354  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  If  Mr.  Cumbermcde  will  allow  you  to  look  at  the  label 
attached  to  the  sheath  iu  his  hand,  for  fortunately  it  was  a  rule 
with  Mr.  Close  to  put  a  label  ou  both  sword  and  sheath,  and 
if  you  will  read  me  the  number,  I  will  read  you  the  descriptioii 
in  the  book." 

I  handed  the  sheath  to  Sir  Giles,  who  began  to  decipher  the 
number  on  the  ivory  ticket. 

"  The  label  is  quite  a  new  one,"  I  said. 

"  I  have  already  accounted  for  that,"  said  Brotherton.  "  I 
will  leave  it  to  yourself  to  decide  whether  the  description 
corresponds." 

Sir  Giles  read  out  the  numbers,  figure  by  figure,  adding— 

"  But  how  are  we  to  test  the  description  ?  I  don't  know  the 
thing,  and  it's  not  here." 

"It  is  at  the  Moat,"  I  replied;  "but  its  future  place  is  at 
Sir  Giles's  decision." 

"  Part  of  the  description  belongs  to  the  scabbard  you  have 
in  your  hand,  sir,"  said  Brotherton.  "  The  description  of  the 
sword  itself  I  submit  to  Mr.  Cumbermede." 

"  Till  the  other  day  I  never  saw  the  blade,"  I  said. 

"  Likely  enough,"  he  retorted  dryly,  and  proceeding,  read 
the  description  of  the  half-basket  hilt,  inlaid  with  ornaments 
and  initials  in  gold. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  all  that  about  the  scabbard,"  said  his 
father. 

. "  Stop  till  we  come  to  the  history,"  he  replied,  and  read  on, 
as  nearly  as  I  can  recall,  to  the  following  effect.  I  have  never 
had  an  opportunity  of  copying  the  words  themselves. 

"'This  sword   seems   to   have  been    expressly  forged    for 

Sir '  "  (he  read  it  Sir  So  and  So)  "  '  whose  initials 

are  to  be  found  on  the  blade.  According  to  tradition,  it  was 
worn  by  him,  for  the  first  and  only  time,  at  the  battle  of 
Naseby,  where  he  fought  in  the  cavalry  led  by  Sir  jMarma- 

duke  Langdale.     From  some  accident  or  other.  Sir 

found,  just  as  the  order  to  charge  was  given,  that  he  could  not 
draw  his  sword,  and  had  to  charge  with  only  a  pistol  in  his 
hand.     In  the  flight  which  followed,  he  pulled  up,  and  un- 


THE   SWOIID   IN   THE  SCALE.  355 

buckled  his  sword,  but  while  attempting  to  case  it,  a  rush  of 
the  enemy  startled  him,  and,  looking  about,  he  saw  a  round- 
head riding  straight  at  Sir  Marmaduke,  who  that  moment 
passed  in  the  rear  of  his  retiring  troops,  giving  some  directions 
to  an  officer  by  his  side,  and  unaware   of  the  nearness  of 

danger,  Sir put  spurs  to  his   charger,  rode  at  the 

trooper,  and  dealt  him  a  downright  blow  on  the  pot-helmet 
with   his  sheathed  weapon.      The   fellow  tumbled   from  his 

horse,  and  Sir found  his  scabbard  split  half-way  up, 

but  the  edge  of  his  weapon  unturned.  It  is  said  he  vowed 
it  should  remain  sheathed  forever.' — The  person  who  has  now 
unsheathed  it,"  added  Brotherton,  "  has  done  a  great  wrong  to 
the  memory  of  a  royal  cavalier." 

"  The  sheath  half-way  split  was  as  familiar  to  my  eyes  as 
the  face  of  my  uncle,"  I  said,  turning  to  Sir  Giles.  "  And  in 
the  only  reference  I  ever  heard  my  great-grandmother  make  to 
it,  she  mentioned  the  name  of  Sir  Marmaduke.  I  recollect 
that  much  perfectly." 

"  But  how  could  the  sword  be  there  and  here  at  one  and 
the  same  time  ?"  said  Sir  Giles. 

"  That  I  do  not  pretend  to  explain,"  I  said. 

"  Here  at  least  is  written  testimony  of  our  possession  of  it," 
said  Brotherton  in  a  conclusive  tone. 

"  How  then  are  we  to  explain  Mr.  Cumbermede's  story  ?" 
said  Sir  Giles,  evidently  in  good  faith. 

"  With  that  I  cannot  consent  to  allow  myself  concerned. — 
Mr.  Cumbermede  is,  I  am  told,  a  writer  of  fiction." 

"Geoffrey,"  said  Sir  Giles, "  behave  yourself  like  a  gentleman." 

"  \  endeavor  to  do  so,"  he  returned  with  a  sneer. 

I  kept  silence. 

"  How  can  you  suppose,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "  that  Mr. 
Cumbermede  would  invent  such  a  story  ?  What  object  could 
he  have?" 

"  He  may  have  a  mania  for  weapons,  like  old  Close — as 
well  as  for  old  books,"  he  replied. 

I  thought  of  my  precious  folio.  But  I  did  not  yet  know 
how  much  additional  force  his  insinuation  with  regard  to  the 


S53  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

motive  of  my  labors  in  the  library  would  gaiu  if  it  should  be 
discovered  iu  my  possession. 

"  You  may  have  remarked,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "  that  I  did  not 
read  the  name  of  the  owner  of  the  sword  iu  any  place  where  it 
occurred  iu  the  manuscript." 

"  I  did.  And  I  beg  to  know  why  you  kept  it  back,"  an- 
swered Sir  Giles. 

"  What  do  you  think  the  name  might  be,  sir  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?     I  am  not  an  antiquarian." 

"Sir  Wilfrid  Cumbermede.  You  will  find  the  initials  on 
the  blade.  Does  that  throw  any  light  on  the  matter,  do  you 
think,  sir?" 

"  Why  that  is  your  very  own  name !"  cried  Sir  Giles,  turning 
,  to  me. 

I  bowed. 

"  It  is  a  pity  the  sword  shouldn't  be  yours  ?" 

"  It  is  mine,  Sir  Giles — though,  as  I  said,  I  am  prepared  to 
abide  by  your  decision." 

"  And  now  I  remember" — the  old  man  resumed,  after  a 
moment's  thought — "the  other  evening  Mr.  Alderforge — a 
man  of  great  learning,  Mr.  Cumbermede — told  us  that  the 
name  of  Cumbermede  had  at  one  time  belonged  to  our  family. 
It  is  all  very  strange.     I  confess  I  am  utterly  bewildered." 

"  At  least  you  can  understand,  sir,  how  a  man  of  imagination, 
like  Mr.  Cumbermede  here,  might  desire  to  possess  himself  of 
a  weapon  which  bears  his  initials,  and  belonged  two  hundred 
years  ago  to  a  baronet  of  the  same  name  as  himself — a  circum- 
stance which,  notwithstanding  it  is  by  no  means  a  common 
name,  is  not  quite  so  strange  as  at  first  sight  appears — that  is, 
if  all  reports  are  true." 

I  did  not  in  the  least  understand  his  drift ;  neither  did  I 
care  to  inquire  into  it  now. 

"  Were  you  aware  of  this,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?"  asked  his 
father. 

"  No,  Sir  Giles,"  I  answered. 

"  Mr.  Cumbermede  has  had  the  run  of  the  place  for  weeks.  I 
am  sorry  I  was  not  at  home.    This  book  was  lying  all  that  time 


THE  SWORD   IN   THE   SCALE.  357 

on  the  table  in  the  room  above,  where  poor  old  Close's  work- 
bench and  polishing-wheel  are  still  standing." 

"  Mr.  Brotherton,  this  gets  beyond  bearing,"  I  cried.  "  No- 
thing but  the  presence  of  your  father,  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  much  kindness,  protects  you." 

"  Tut !  tut !"  said  Sir  Giles. 

"  Protects  me,  indeed !"  exclaimed  Brotherton.  "  Do  you 
dream  I  should  be  by  any  code  bound  to  accept  a  challenge 
from  you?  Not,  at  least,  I  presume  to  think,  before  a  jury 
had  decided  on  the  merits  of  the  case." 

My  blood  was  boiling,  but  what  could  I  do  or  say  ?  Sir 
Giles  rose,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  remarking  only — 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"  At  all  events,  Sir  Giles,"  I  said,  hurriedly,  "  you  will  allow 
me  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  have  asserted.  I  cannot, 
unfortunately,  call  my  uncle  or  aunt,  for  they  are  gone  ;  and  I 
do  not  know  where  the  servant  who  was  with  us  when  I  took 
the  sword  away,  is  now.  But,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  call 
Mrs.  Wilson  to  prove  that  I  had  the  sword  when  I  came  to 
visit  her  on  that  occasion,  and  that  on  the  morning  after 
sleeping  here  I  complained  of  its  lo6s  to  her,  and  went  away 
without  it." 

"  It  would  but  serve  to  show  the  hallucination  was  early 
developed.  We  should  probably  find  that  even  then  you 
were  much  attracted  by  the  armory,"  said  Brotherton,  with  a 
judicial  air,  as  if  I  were  a  culprit  before  a  magistrate. 

I  had  begun  to  see  that,  although  the  old  man  was  desirous 
of  being  just,  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  his  son.  He  rose  as  the 
latter  spoke,  however,  and  going  into  the  gallery,  shouted  over 
the  balustrade : 

"  Some  one  send  Mrs.  Wilson  to  the  library." 

We  removed  to  the  reading-room,  I  carrying  the  scabbard, 
which  Sir  Giles  had  returned  to  me  as  soon  as  he  had  read  the 
label.  Brotherton  followed,  having  first  gone  up  the  little 
turnpike  stair,  doubtless  to  replace  the  manuscript. 

Mrs.  Wilson  came,  looking  more  pinched  than  ever,  and 
stood  before  Sir  Giles  with  her  arras  straight  by  her  sides,  like 


358  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

one  of  the  ladies  of  Noah's  ark.  I  will  not  weary  my  reader 
with  a  full  report  of  the  exaiuiuatiou.  She  had  seen  me  ivith 
a  sword,  but  had  taken  no  notice  of  its  appearance.  I  might 
have  taken  it  from  the  armory,  for  I  was  in  the  library  all  the 
afternoon,  She  had  left  me  there  thinking  I  was  a  "gentle- 
mauly  "  boy.  I  had  mid  I  had  lost  it,  but  she  was  sure  she 
did  not  know  how  that  could  be.  She  was  very  sorry  she  had 
caused  any  trouble  by  asking  me  to  the  house,  but  Sir  Giles 
would  be  pleased  to  remember  that  he  had  himself  introduced 
the  boy  to  her  notice.     Little  as  she  thought,  etc.,  etc. 

In  fact,  the  spiteful  creature,  propitiating  her  natural  sense 
of  justice  by  hinting  instead  of  plainly  suggesting  injurious 
conclusions,  was  paying  me  back  for  my  imagined  participation 
in  the  impertinences  of  Clara.  She  had,  besides,  as  I  learned 
afterwards,  greatly  resented  the  trouble  I  had  caused  of  late. 

Brotherton  struck  in  as  soon  as  his  father  had  ceased 
questioning  her. 

"  At  all  events,  if  he  believed  the  sword  was  his,  why  did  he 
not  go  and  represent  the  case  to  you,  sir,  and  request  justice 
from  you  ?  Since  then  he  has  had  opportunity  enough.  His 
tale  has  taken  too  long  to  hatch." 

"  This  is  all  very  paltry,"  I  said. 

"Not  so  paltry  as  your  contriving  to  sleep  in  the  house  in 
order  to  carry  off  your  host's  property  in  the  morning — after 
studying  the  place  to  discover  which  room  would  suit  your 
purpose  best !" 

Here  I  lost  my  presence  of  mind.  A  horror  struck  me  lest 
something  might  come  out  to  injure  Mary,  and  I  shivered  at 
the  thought  of  her  name  being  once  mentioned  along  with  mine. 
If  I  had  taken  a  moment  to  reflect,  I  must  have  seen  that  I 
should  only  add  to  the  danger  by  what  I  was  about  to  say. 
But  her  form  was  so  inextricably  associated  in  my  mind  with 
all  that  had  happened  then,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  slightest 
allusion  to  any  event  of  that  night  would  inevitably  betray 
her ;  and  in  the  tremor  which,  like  an  electric  shock,  passed 
through  me  from  head  to  foot,  I  brunted  out  words  importing 
that  I  had  never  slept  in  the  house  in  my  life. 


THE  SWORD   IN   THE   SCALE.  359 

"  Your  room  was  got  ready  for  you,  anyhow,  Master  Cum- 
berinede,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"  It  does  not  follow  that  1  occupied  it,"  I  returned. 

"  I  can  prove  that  false,"  said  Brotherton :  but  probably 
lest  he  should  be  required  to  produce  his  witness,  only  added, 
— "  At  all  events  he  was  seen  in  the  morning,  carrying  the 
sword  across  the  court  before  any  one  had  been  admitted." 

I  was  silent ;  for  I  now  saw  too  clearly  that  I  had  made  a 
dreadful  blunder,  and  any  attempt  to  carry  assertion  further, 
or  even  to  explain  away  my  words,  might  be  to  challenge  the 
very  discovery  I  would  have  given  my  life  to  ward  off. 

As  I  continued  silent,  steeling  myself  to  endure,  and  saying 
to  myself  that  disgrace  was  not  dishonor.  Sir  Giles  again  rose, 
and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  Evidently  he  was  now  satisfied 
that  I  was  unworthy  of  confidence. 

"  One  moment,  if  you  please.  Sir  Giles,"  I  said.  "  It  is 
plain  to  me  there  is  some  mystery  about  this  affair,  and  it  does 
not  seem  as  if  I  should  be  able  to  clear  it  up.  The  time  may 
come,  however,  when  I  can.  I  did  wrong,  I  see  now,  in 
attempting  to  right  myself,  instead  of  representing  my  case  to 
you.  But  that  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  the  sword  was  and 
is  mine,  however  appearances  may  be  to  the  contrary.  In  the 
meantime,  I  restore  you  the  scabbard,  and  as  soon  as  I  reach 
home,  I  shall  send  my  man  with  the  disputed  weapon." 

"  It  will  be  your  better  way,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  sheath 
from  my  hand. 

Without  another  word  he  left  the  room.  Mrs.  Wilson  also 
retired.  Brotherton  alone  remained.  I  took  no  further 
notice  of  him,  but  followed  Sir  Giles  through  the  armory. 
He  came  after  me,  step  for  step,  at  a  little  distance,  and  as  I 
stepped  out  into  the  gallery,  said  in  a  tone  of  insulting  polite- 
ness : 

"  You  will  send  the  sword  as  soon  as  may  be  quite  conve- 
nient, Mr.  Cumbermede?     Or  shall  I  send  and  fetch  it?" 

I  turned  and  faced  him  in  the  dim  light  that  came  up  from 
the  hall. 

"  Mr.  Brotherton,  if  you  know  that  book  and  those  weapons 


360  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

as  curly  as  you  have  just  said,  you  cannot  help  knowing  that 
at  that  time  the  sword  was  7iot  there." 

"  I  decline  to  reopen  the  question,"  he  said. 

A  fierce  word  leaped  to  my  lips,  but  repressing  it,  I  turned 
away  once  more,  and  walked  slowly  down  the  stair,  across  the 
hall,  and  out  of  the  house. 


I  TART   WITH   MY   SWORD.  361 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

I     PART     WITH     MY     SWORD. 

I  MADE  haste  out  of  the  park,  but  wandered  up  and  down 
my  own  field  for  half  an  hour,  thinking  in  what  shape  to  put 
what  had  occurred  before  Charley.  My  perplexity  arose  not 
so  much  from  the  difficulty  involved  in  the  mattt'^.r  itself,  as 
from  my  inability  to  fix  my  thoughts.  My  brain  was  for  the 
time  like  an  ever-revolving  kaleidoscope,  in  which,  however, 
there  was  but  one  fair  color — the  thought  of  Mary.  Having  at 
length  succeeded  in  arriving  at  some  conclusion,  I  went  home, 
and  would  have  despatched  Styles  at  once  with  the  sword,  had 
not  Charley  already  sent  him  off  to  the  stable  ;  so  that  I  must 
wait. 

"  What  has  kept  you  so  long,  Wilfrid  ?"  Charley  asked  as  I 
entered. 

"  I've  had  a  tremendous  row  with  Brotherton,"  I  answered. 

''  The  brute !  Is  he  there  ?  I'm  glad  I  was  gone.  What 
was  it  aU  about  ?" 

"  About  that  sword.  It  was  very  foolish  of  me  to  take  it 
without  saying  a  word  to  Sir  Giles." 

"  So  it  was,"  he  returned.  "  I  can't  think  how  you  could  be 
60  foolish." 

I  could,  well  enough.  What  with  the  dream  and  the  waking, 
I  could  think  little  about  anything  else ;  and  only  since  the 
consequences  had  overtaken  me,  saw  how  unwisely  I  had  acted. 
I  now  told  Charley  the  greater  part  of  the  afiair — omitting  the 
false  step  I  had  made  in  saying  I  had  not  slept  in  the  house ; 
and  also,  still  with  the  vague  dread  of  leading  to  some  dis- 
covery, omitting  to  report  the  treachery  of  Clara;  for,  if  Charley 
should  talk  to  her  or  Mary  about  it,  which  was  possible  enough, 
I  saw  several  points  where  the  danger  would  lie  very  close.  I 
simply  told  him  that  I  had  found  Brotherton  in  the  armory. 
and  reported  what  followed  between  us.      I  did  not  at   all 


362  WILFRID   Cb'MBEKMEDK 

relish  having  now  in  my  turn  secrets  from  Charley,  but  my 
conscience  did  not  trouble  me  about  it,  seeing  it  was  for  his 
£:ister's  sake ;  and  when  I  saw  the  rage  of  indignation  into 
which  he  flew,  I  was,  if  possible,  yet  more  certain  I  was  right. 
I  told  him  I  must  go  and  find  Styles,  that  he  might  take  the 
sword  at  once;  but  he  started  up,  sayiug  he  would  carry  it 
back  himself,  and  at  the  same  time  take  his  leave  of  Sir  Giles, 
whose  house  of  course  he  could  never  enter  again  after  the 
way  I  had  been  treated  in  it.  I  saw  this  would  lead  to  a  rup- 
ture with  the  whole  family,  but  I  should  not  regret  that,  for 
there  could  be  no  advantage  to  Mary  either  in  continuing  her 
intimacy,  such  as  it  was,  with  Clara,  or  in  making  further 
acquaintance  with  Brotherton.  The  time  of  their  departure 
was  also  close  at  hand,  and  might  be  hastened  without  neces- 
sarily involving  much  of  the  unpleasant.  Also,  if  Charley 
broke  with  them  at  once,  there  would  be  the  less  danger  of  hLs 
coming  to  know  that  I  had  not  given  him  all  the  particulars 
of  my  discomfiture.  If  he  were  to  find  I  had  told  a  false- 
hood, how  could  I  explain  to  him  why  I  had  done  so  ?  This 
arguing  on  probabilities  made  me  feel  like  a  culprit  who  has 
to  protect  himself  by  concealment ;  but  I  will  not  dwell  upon 
my  discomfort  in  the  half  duplicity  thus  forced  upon  me.  I 
could  not  help  it.  I  got  down  the  sword,  and  together  we 
looked  at  it  for  the  first  and  last  time.  I  found  the  descrip- 
tion contained  in  the  book  perfectly  correct.  The  upper  part 
was  inlaid  with  gold  in  a  Greekish  pattern  crossed  by  the 
initials  W.  C.  I  gave  it  up  to  Charley  with  a  sigh  of  submis- 
sion to  the  inevitable,  and  having  accompanied  him  to  the 
park-gate,  roamed  my  field  again  until  his  return. 

He  rejoined  me  in  a  far  quieter  mood,  and  for  a  moment  or 
two  I  was  silent  with  the  terror  of  learning  that  he  had 
become  acquainted  with  my  unhappy  blunder.  After  a  little 
pause,  he  said, 

"  I'm  very  sorry  I  didn't  see  Brotherton.  I  should  have 
liked  just  a  word  or  two  with  him." 

"  It's  just  as  well  not,"  I  said.  "  You  would  only  have 
made  another  row.     Didn't  you  see  any  of  them  ?" 


I   PART   WITH   MY   SWORD.       «  363 

"  I  saw  the  old  mau.  He  seemed  really  cut  up  about  it, 
and  professed  great  concern.  He  didn't  even  refer  to  you  by 
name — and  spoke  only  in  general  terms.  I  told  him  you  were 
incapable  of  what  was  laid  to  your  charge ;  that  I  had  not  the 
slightest  doubt  of  your  claim  to  the  sword, — your  word  being 
enough  for  me — and  that  I  trusted  time  would  right  you.  I 
went  too  far  there,  however,  for  I  haven't  the  slightest  hope 
of  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  How  did  he  take  all  that  ?" 

"He  only  smiled — incredulously  and  sadly, — so  that  I 
couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  tell  him  all  my  mind.  I  only 
insisted  on  my  own  perfect  confidence  in  you.  I'm  afraid  I 
made  a  poor  advocate,  Wilfrid.  Why  should  I  mind  his  gray 
hairs  where  justice  was  concerned  ?  I  am  afraid  I  was  false 
to  you,  Wilfrid." 

"  jS'onsense ;  you  did  just  the  right  thing,  old  boy.  Nobody 
could  have  done  better." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  am  so  glad !  I  have  been  feeling 
ever  since  as  if  I  ought  to  have  gone  into  a  rage,  and  shaken 
the  dust  of  the  place  from  my  feet  as  a  witness  against  the 
whole  nest  of  them  !  But  somehow  I  couldn't — what  with  the 
honest  face  and  the  sorrowful  look  of  the  old  man." 

"  You  are  always  too  much  of  a  partisan,  Charley ;  I  don't 
mean  so  much  in  your  actions — for  this  very  one  disproves 
that — but  in  your  notions  of  obligation.  You  forget  that 
you  had  to  be  just  to  Sir  Giles  as  well  as  to  me,  and  that  he 
must  be  judged — not  by  the  absolute  facts  of  the  case,  but 
by  what  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  facts.  He  could  not  help 
misjudging  me.  But  you  ought  to  help  misjudging  him.  So 
you  see  your  behaviour  was  guided  by  an  instinct  or  a  soul, 
or  what  you  will,  deeper  than  your  judgment." 

"  That  may  be — but  he  ought  to  have  kno^vn  you  better 
than  believe  you  capable  of  misconduct." 

"  I  don't  know  that.  He  had  seen  very  little  of  me.  But 
I  dare  say  he  puts  it  down  to  cleptomania.  I  think  he  will  be 
kind  enough  to  give  the  ugly  thing  a  fine  name  for  my  sake. 
Besides,  he  must  hold  either  by  his  son  or  by  me." 


364  WILFRID  CUMBEIiMEDE. 

"  That's  the  worst  that  cau  be  said  on  my  side  of  the  ques- 
tiou.  He  must  by  this  time  be  aware  that  that  son  of  his  is 
nothing  better  than  a  low  scoundrel." 

"  It  takes  much  to  convince  a  father  of  such  an  unpleasant 
truth  as  that,  Charley." 

"  Not  much,  if  my  experience  goes  for  anything." 

"  I  trust  it  is  not  typical,  Charley." 

"  I  suppose  you're  going  to  stand  up  for  Geoffrey  next?" 

"  I  have  no  such  intention.  But  if  I  did,  it  would  be  but 
to  follow  your  example.  We  seem  to  change  sides  every  now 
and  then.  You  remember  how  you  used  to  defend  Clara 
when  I  expressed  my  doubts  about  her." 

"  And  wasn't  I  right  ?     Didn't  you  come  over  to  my  side  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  I  said,  and  hastened  to  change  the  subject ; 
adding,  "As  for  Geoffrey,  there  is  room  enough  to  doubt 
whether  he  believes  what  he  says,  and  that  makes  a  serious  dif- 
ference. In  thinking  over  the  affair  since  you  left  me,  I  have 
discovered  further  grounds  for  questioning  his  truthfulness." 

"  As  if  that  were  necessary  !"  he  exclaimed  with  an  accent 
of  scorn.     "But  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  added. 

"  In  turning  the  thing  over  in  my  mind,  this  question  has 
occurred  to  me.  He  read  from  the  manuscript,  that  on  the 
blade  of  the  sword,  near  the  hilt,  were  the  initials  of  Wilfrid 
Cumbermede.  Now,  if  the  sword  had  never  been  drawn  from 
the  scabbard,  how  was  that  to  be  known  to  the  writer  ?" 

"  Perhaps,  it  was  written  about  that  time,"  said  Charley. 

"No;  the  manuscript  was  evidently  written  some  considera- 
ble time  after.     It  refers  to  tradition  concerning  it." 

"  Then  the  writer  knew  it  by  tradition." 

The  moment  Charley's  logical  faculty  was  excited,  his  per- 
ception was  impartial. 

"  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "  it  does  not  follow  that  the  sword 
had  really  never  been  drawn  before.  Mr.  Close  even  may 
have  done  so,  for  his  admiration  was  apparently  quite  as 
much  for  weapons  themselves  as  for  their  history.  Clara 
could  hardly  have  drawn  it  as  she  did,  if  it  had  not  been 
meddled  with  before." 


I   PART   WITH   MY   SWORD.  365 

The  terror  lest  he  should  ask  me  how  I  came  to  carry  it 
home  without  the  scabbard,  harried  my  objection. 

"  That  supposition,  however,  would  only  imply  that  Bro- 
therton  might  have  learned  the  fact  from  the  sword  itself,  not 
from  the  book.  I  should  just  like  to  have  one  peep  of  the 
manuscript  to  see  whether  what  he  read  was  all  there  ?" 

"  Or  any  of  it,  for  that  matter,"  said  Charley.  "  Only  it 
would  have  been  a  more  tremendous  risk  than  I  think  he 
would  have  run." 

"I  wish  I  had  thought  of  it  sooner,  though." 

My  suspicion  was  that  Clara  had  examined  the  blade 
thoroughly,  and  given  him  a  full  description  of  it.  He  might, 
however,  have  been  at  the  Hall  on  some  previous  occasion, 
without  my  knowledge,  and  might  have  seen  the  half-drawn 
blade  on  the  wall,  examined  it,  and  pushed  it  back  into  the 
sheath;  which  might  have  so  far  loosened  the  blade,  that 
Clara  was  afterwards  able  to  draw  it  herself.  I  was  all  but 
certain  by  this  time  that  it  was  no  other  than  she  that  had 
laid  it  on  my  bed.  But  then  why  had  she  drawn  it  ?  Perhaps 
that  I  might  leave  proof  of  its  identity  behind  me — for  the 
carrying  out  of  her  treachery,  whatever  the  object  of  it  might 
be.  But  this  opened  a  hundred  questions  not  to  be  discussed, 
even  in  silent  thought,  in  the  presence  of  another. 

"  Did  you  not  see  your  mother^  Charley  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No.  I  thought  it  better  not  to  trouble  her.  They  are 
going  to-morrow.  Mary  had  persuaded  her — why,  I  don't 
know — to  return  a  day  or  two  sooner  than  they  had  intended." 

"  I  hope  Brotherton  will  not  succeed  in  prejudicing  them 
against  me." 

"  I  wish  that  were  possible,"  he  answered.  "  But  the  time 
for  prejudice  is  long  gone  by." 

I  could  not  believe  this  to  be  the  case  in  respect  to  Mary ; 
for  I  could  not  but  think  her  favorably  inclined  to  me. 

"Still,"  I  said,  "I  should  not  like  their  bad  opinion  of  me  to 
be  enlarged  as  well  as  strengthened  by  the  belief  that  I  had 
attempted  to  steal  Sir  Giles's  property.  You  must  stand  my 
friend  there,  Charley." 


36G  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"Then  you  do  douljt  me,  Wilfrid ?'* 

"Not  a  bit,  you  foolish  fellow." 

"  You  know,  I  can't  enter  that  house  again,  and  I  don't 
care  about  writing  to  my  mother,  for  my  father  is  sure  to  see 
it;  but  I  will  follow  my  mother  and  Mary  the  moment  they 
are  out  of  the  grounds  to-morrow,  and  soon  see  whether 
they've  got  the  story  by  the  right  end." 

The  evening  passed  with  me  in  alternate  fits  of  fierce  in- 
dignation and  profound  depression,  for,  while  I  was  clear  to 
my  own  conscience  in  regard  of  my  enemies,  I  had  yet  thrown 
myself  bound  at  their  feet  by  my  foolish  lie ;  and  I  all  but 
made  up  my  mind  to  leave  the  country,  and  only  return  after 
having  achieved  such  a  position — of  what  sort  I  had  no  more 
idea  than  the  school-boy  before  he  sets  himself  to  build  a  new 
castle  in  the  air — as  would  buttress  any  assertion  of  the  facts 
I  might  see  fit  to  make  in  after  years. 

When  we  had  parted  for  the  night  my  brains  began  to  go 
about,  and  the  center  of  their  gyration  was  not  Mary  now, 
but  Clara.  What  could  have  induced  her  to  play  me  false  ? 
All  my  vanity,  of  which  I  had  enough,  was  insufficient  to 
persuade  me  that  it  could  be  out  of  revenge  for  the  gradual 
diminution  of  my  attentions  to  her.  She  had  seen  me  pay 
none  to  Mary,  I  thought,  except  she  had  caught  a  glimpse 
from  the  next  room  of  the  little  passage  of  the  ring,  and  that 
I  did  not  believe,  Neither  did  I  believe  she  had  ever  cared 
enough  about  me  to  be  jealous  of  whatever  attentions  I  might 
pay  to  another.  But  in  all  my  conjectures,  I  had  to  confess 
myself  utterly  foiled.  I  could  imagine  no  motive.  Two 
possibilities  alone,  both  equally  improbable,  suggested  them- 
selves— the  one,  that  she  did  it  for  pure  love  of  mischief, 
which,  false  as  she  was  to  me,  I  could  not  believe  ;  the  other, 
which  likewise  I  rejected,  that  she  wanted  to  ingratiate  herself 
with  Brotherton.  I  had  still,  however,  scarcely  a  doubt  that 
she  had  laid  the  sword  on  my  bed.  Trying  to  imagine  a  con- 
nection between  this  possible  action  and  Mary's  mistake,  I 
built  up  a  conjectural  form  of  conjectural  facts  to  this  eflect 
— that  Mary  had  seen  her  go  into  my  room  ;  had  taken  it  for 


I    PART    WITH   MY   SWORD.  367 

the  room  she  was  to  share  with  her,  and  had  followed  her 
either  at  once — in  which  case  I  supposed  Clara  to  have  gone 
out  by  the  stair  to  the  roof  to  avoid  being  seen — or  after- 
wards, from  some  accident,  without  a  light  in  her  hand.  But 
I  do  not  care  to  set  down  more  of  my  speculations,  for  none 
concerning  this  either  were  satisfactory  to  myself,  and  I 
remain  almost  as  much  in  the  dark  to  this  day.  In  any  case 
the  fear  remained  that  Clara  must  be  ever  on  the  borders  of 
the  discovery  of  Mary's  secret,  if  indeed  she  did  not  know  it 
already,  which  was  a  dreadful  thought — more  especially  as  I 
could  place  no  confidence  in  her.  I  was  glad  to  think,  how- 
ever, that  they  were  to  be  parted  so  soon,  and  I  had  little  fear 
of  any  correspondence  between  them. 

The  next  morning  Charley  set  out  to  waylay  them  at  a  cer- 
tain point  on  their  homeward  journey.  I  did  not  propose  to 
accompany  him.  I  preferred  having  him  speak  for  me  first, 
not  knowing  how  much  they  might  have  heard  to  my  dis- 
credit, for  it  was  far  from  probable  the  matter  had  been  kept 
from  them.  After  he  had  started,  however,  I  could  not  rest, 
and  for  pure  restlessness  sent  Styles  to  fetch  my  mare.  The 
loss  of  my  sword  was  a  trifle  to  me  now,  but  the  proximity  of 
the  place  where  I  should  henceforth  be  regarded  as  what  I 
hardly  dared  to  realize,  was  almost  unendurable.  As  if  I  had 
actually  been  guilty  of  what  was  laid  to  my  charge,  I  longed 
to  hide  myself  in  some  impenetrable  depth,  and  kept  looking 
out  impatiently  for  Styles's  return.  At  length  I  caught  sight 
of  my  Lilith's  head  rising  white  from  the  hollow  in  which  the 
farm  lay,  and  ran  up  to  my  room  to  make  a  little  change  in 
my  attire.  Just  as  I  snatched  my  riding-whip  from  a  hook  by 
the  window,  I  spied  a  horseman  approaching  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  park  gates.  Once  more  it  was  Mr.  Couiugham, 
riding  hitherward  from  the  windy  trees.  In  no  degree  in- 
clined to  meet  him,  I  hurried  down  the  stair,  and  arriving  at 
the  very  moment  Styles  drew  up,  sprang  into  the  saddle,  and 
would  have  galloped  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  confident 
that  no  horse  of  Mr.  Coningham's  could  overtake  my  Lilith. 
But  the  moment  I  was  in  the  saddle,  I  remembered  there  was 


368  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

a  pile  of  books  on  tlie  window-sill  of  my  uncle's  room,  belong- 
ing to  the  library  at  the  Hall,  and  I  stopped  a  moment  to 
give  Styles  the  direction  to  take  them  home  at  once,  and, 
having  asked  a  word  of  Miss  Pea;5e,  to  request  her,  with  my 
kind  regards,  to  see  them  safely  deposited  amongst  the  rest. 
In  consequence  of  this  delay,  just  as  I  set  off  at  full  speed 
from  the  door,  Mr.  Coningham  rode  round  the  corner  of  the 
house. 

"  AVhat  a  devil  of  a  hurry  you  are  in,  Mr.  Cumbermede !" 
he  cried.  "  I  was  just  coming  to  see  you.  Can't  you  spare 
me  a  word?" 

I  was  forced  to  pull  up,  and  reply  as  civilly  as  might  be. 

"  I  am  only  going  for  a  ride,"  I  said,  "  and  will  go  part  of 
your  way  with  you  if  you  like." 

"  Thank  you.  That  will  suit  me  admirably.  I  am  going 
Gastford  way.     Have  you  ever  been  there  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "I  have  only  just  heard  the  name  of 
the  village." 

"It  is  a  pretty  place.  But  there's  the  oddest  old  church 
you  ever  saw,  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  it — alone  in  the 
middle  of  a  forest — or  at  least  it  was  a  forest  not  long  ago.  It 
is  mostly  young  trees  now.  There  isn't  a  house  within  a  mile 
of  it,  and  the  nearest  stands  as  lonely  as  the  church — quite  a 
place  to  suit  the  fancy  of  a  poet  like  you !  Come  along  and 
see  it.  You  may  as  well  go  one  way  as  another,  if  you  only 
want  a  ride." 

"How  far  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"  Only  seven  or  eight  miles  across  country :  I  can  take  you 
all  the  way  through  lanes  and  fields." 

Perplexed  or  angry  I  was  always  disinclined  for  speech ;  and 
it  was  only  after  things  had  arranged  themselves  in  my  mind, 
or  I  had  mastered  my  indignation,  that  I  would  begin  to  feel 
communicative.  But  something  prudential  inside  warned  me 
that  I  could  not  afford  to  lose  any  friend  I  had ;  and  although 
I  was  not  prepared  to  confide  my  wrongs  to  Mr.  Coningham,  I 
felt  I  might  some  day  be  glad  of  his  counsel. 


UMBERDEJN    CHURCH.  369 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

UMBERDEN    CHURCH. 

My  companion  chatted  away,  lauded  my  mare,  asked  if  I 
had  seen  Clara  lately,  and  how  the  library  was  getting  on.  I 
answered  him  carelessly,  without  even  a  hint  at  my  troubles. 

"You  seem  out  of  spirits,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  he  said. 
"  You've  been  taking  too  little  exercise.  Let's  have  a  canter. 
It  will  do  you  good.     Here's  a  nice  bit  of  sward." 

I  was  only  too  ready  to  embrace  the  excuse  for  dropping  a 
conversation  towards  which  I  was  unable  to  contribute  my 
share. 

Having  reached  a  small  roadside  inn,  we  gave  our  horses  a 
little  refreshment;  after  which,  crossing  a  field  or  two  by  jump- 
ing the  stiles,  we  entered  the  loveliest  lane  I  had  ever  seen.  It 
was  so  narrow  that  there  was  just  room  for  horses  to  pass  each 
other,  and  covered  with  the  greenest  sward  rarely  trodden.  It 
ran  through  the  midst  of  a  wilderness  of  tall  hazels.  They 
stood  up  on  both  sides  of  it,  straight  and  trim  as  walls,  high 
above  our  heads  as  we  sat  on  our  horses ;  and  the  lane  was  so 
serpentine,  that  we  could  never  see  farther  than  a  few  yards 
ahead ;  while,  towards  the  end,  it  kept  turning  so  much  in  one 
direction  that  we  seemed  to  be  folio wino-  the  circumference  of 
a  little  circle.  It  ceased  at  length  at  a  small  double-leaved 
gat-e  of  iron,  to  which  we  tied  our  horses  before  entering  the 
church-yard.  But  instead  of  a  neat  burial-place,  which  the 
whole  approach  would  have  given  us  to  expect,  we  found  a 
desert.  The  grass  was  of  extraordinary  coarseness,  and 
mingled  with  quantities  of  vile-looking  weeds.  Several  of  the 
graves  had  not  even  a  spot  of  green  upon  them,  but  were  mere 
heaps  of  yellow  earth  in  huge  lumps,  mixed  with  large  stones. 
There  was  not  above  a  score  of  graves  in  the  whole  place,  two 
or  three  of  which  only  had  gravestones  on  them.  One  lay 
24 


370  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

open,  with  tlie  rough  yellow  lumps  all  about  it,  and  compjete«l 
the  desolation.  The  church  was  nearly  square — small,  and 
shapeless,  with  but  four  latticed  windows,  two  on  one  side,  one 
in  the  other,  and  tlie  fourth  in  the  east  end.  It  was  built  partly 
^1  briclcs  and  partly  of  tlint  stones,  the  vaills  bowed  and  bent, 
and  the  roof  waved  and  broken.  Its  old  age  had  gathered 
none  of  the  graces  of  age  to  soften  its  natural  ugliness,  or  ele- 
vate its  insignificance.  Except  a  few  lichens,  there  was  not  a 
mark  of  vegetation  about  it.  Not  a  single  ivy-leaf  grew  on  its 
spotted  and  wasted  walls.  It  gave  a  hopeless,  pagan  expression 
to  the  whole  landscape — for  it  stood  on  a  rising  ground  from 
which  we  had  an  extensive  prospect  of  height  and  hollow,  corn- 
field and  pasture  and  wood,  away  to  the  dim  blue  horizon. 

"  You  don't  find  it  enlivening,  do  you — eh  ?"  said  my  com- 
panion. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  frightfully  desolate  spot,"  I  said,  "  to 
have  yet  the  appearance  of  a  place  of  Christian  worship.  It 
looks  as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  it.  Are  all  those  the  graves 
of  suicides  and  murderers  ?  It  cannot  surely  be  consecrated 
ground." 

"  It's  not  nice,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  expect  you  to  like  it.  I 
only  said  it  was  odd." 

"  Is  there  any  service  held  in  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes — once  a  fortnight  or  so.  The  rector  has  another  living 
a  few  miles  off." 

"  Where  can  the  congregation  come  froA  ?" 

"  Hardly  from  anywhere.  There  ain't  generally  more  than 
five  or  six,  I  believe.     Let's  have  a  look  at  the  inside  of  it." 

"The  windows  are  much  too  high,  and  no  foothold." 

"We'll  go  in." 

"  Where  can  you  get  the  key  ?  It  must  be  a  mile  off  at 
least,  by  your  own  account.  There's  no  house  nearer  than  that, 
you  say." 

He  made  me  no  reply,  but  going  to  the  only  flat  gravestone, 
which  stood  on  short  thick  pillars,  he  put  his  hand  beneath  it, 
and  drew  out  a  great  rusty  key. 

"  Country  la^vyers  know  a  secret  or  two,"  he  said. 


UMBERDEN     CHURCH.  371 

"Not  always  much  worth  knowing,"  I  rejoined,  "if  the  in- 
side be  no  better  than  the  outside." 

"  We'll  have  a  look,  anyhow,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  the  key 
in  the  dry  lock. 

The  door  snarled  on  its  hinges  and  disclosed  a  space  drearier 
certainly,  and  if  possible  uglier,  than  its  promise. 

"  Keally,  Mr.  Coningham,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  have  brought  me  to  look  at  this  place." 

"  It  answered  for  a  bait,  at  all  events.  You've  had  a  good 
long  ride,  which  was  the  best  thing  for  you.  Look  what  a 
wretched  little  vestry  that  is !" 

It  was  but  a  corner  of  the  east  end,  divided  off  by  a  faded 
red  curtain. 

"  I  suppose  they  keep  a  parish  register  here,"  he  said.  "Let's 
have  a  look." 

Behind  the  curtain  hung  a  dirty  surplice  and  gown.  In  the 
corner  stood  a  desk  like  the  schoolmaster's  in  a  village  school. 
There  was  a  shelf  with  a  few  vellum-bound  books  on  it,  and 
nothing  else,  not  even  a  chair,  in  the  place. 

"  Yes ;  there  they  are !"  he  said,  as  he  took  down  one  of  the 
volumes  from  the  shelf  "  This  one  comes  to  a  close  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  century.  I  dare  say  there  is  something  in 
this  now  that  would  be  interesting  enough  to  somebody.  Who 
knows  how  many  properties  it  might  make  change  hands  ?" 

"  Not  many,  I  should  think.  Those  matters  are  pretty  well 
seen  to  now." 

"  By  some  one  or  other — not  always  the  rightful  heirs.  Life 
is  full  of  the  strangest  facts,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  If  I  were  a 
novelist  now,  like  you,  my  experience  would  make  me  dare  a 
good  deal  more  in  the  way  of  invention  than  any  novelist  I 
happen  to  have  read.     Look  there,  for  instance !" 

He  pointed  to  the  top  of  the  last  page,  or,  rather,  the  last 
half  of  the  cover.     I  read  as  follows : 

MARRIAGES,  1748. 

"  Mr.  Wilfrid  Cumbermede  Daryll,  of  the  Parish  of ,  second  son  of  Sir 

Richard  Daryll  of  Moldwarp  Hall  in  the  County  of ,  and  Mistress  Eliza- 

bclh  Woodrufie  were  married  by  a  license  Jan.  16." 


372  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  don't  know  the  name  of  Daryll,"  I  said. 
"It  was  your  own  great-grandfather's  name,"  he  returned. 
"I  happen  to  know  that  much." 

"You  knew  this  was  here,  Mr.  Coningham,"  I  said.    "That 
is  why  you  brought  me." 

"  You  are  right.     I  did  know  it.     Was  I  wrong  in  thinking 
it  would  interest  you  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  am  obliged  to  you.  But  why  this  mys- 
tery?  Why  not  have  told  me  what  you  wanted  me  to  go  for?" 

"  I  will  why  you  in  turn.  Why  should  I  have  wanted  to 
show  you  now  more  than  any  other  time  what  1  have  known 
for  as  many  years  almost  as  you  have  lived  ?  You  spoke  of  a 
ride — why  shouldn't  I  give  a  direction  to  it  that  might  pay 
you  for  your  trouble  ?  And  why  shouldn't  I  have  a  little 
amusement  out  of  it  if  I  pleased  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  enjoy 
your  surprise  at  finding  in  a  place  you  had  hardly  heard  of, 
and  would  certainly  count  most  uninteresting,  the  record  of  a 
fact  that  concerned  your  own  existence  so  nearly  ?     There !" 

"  I  confess  it  interests  me  more  than  you  will  easily  think — 
inasmuch  as  it  seems  to  offer  to  account  for  things  that  have 
greatly  puzzled  me  for  some  time.  I  have  of  late  met  with 
several  hints  of  a  connection  at  one  time  or  other  between  the 
Moat  and  the  Hall,  but  these  hints  were  so  isolated  that  I 
could  weave  no  theory  to  connect  them.  Now  I  dare  say  they 
will  clear  themselves  up." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  that,  if  you  set  about  it  in  earnest." 

"  How  did  he  come  to  drop  his  surname  ?" 

"  That  has  to  be  accounted  for." 

"  It  follows— does  it  not  ? — that  T  am  of  the  same  blood  as 
the  present  possessors  of  Moldwarp  Hall  ?" 

"  You  are— but  the  relation  is  not  a  close  one,"  said  Mr. 
Coningham.  "Sir  Giles  was  but  distantly  related  to  the  stock 
of  which  you  come." 

"  Then — but  I  must  turn  it  over  in  my  mind.  I  am  rather 
in  a  maze." 

"  You  have  got  some  papers  at  the  Moat  ?"  he  said — inter- 
rogatively. 


UMBERDEN   CHURCH.  373 

"Yes;  my  friend  Osborne  has  been  looking  over  them.  He 
found  out  this  much — that  there  was  once  some  connection 
between  the  Moat  and  the  Hall,  but  at  a  far  earlier  date  than 
this  points  to,  or  any  of  the  hints  to  which  I  just  now  referred. 
The  other  day,  when  I  dined  at  Sir  Giles's,  Mr.  Alderforge 
said  that  Cumbermede  was  a  name  belonging  to  Sir  Giles's 
ancestry — or  something  to  that  effect ;  but  that  again  could 
have  had  nothing  to  do  with  those  papers,  or  with  the  Moat 
at  all." 

Here  I  stopped,  for  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  refer  to  the 
sword.  It  was  not  merely  that  the  subject  was  too  painful  : 
of  all  things  I  did  not  want  to  be  cross-questioned  by  my 
lawyer-companion. 

"  It  is  not  amongst  those  you  will  find  anything  of  import- 
ance, I  suspect.  Did  your  great-grandmother — the  same,  no 
doubt,  whose  marriage  is  here  registered — leave  no  letters  or 
papers  behind  her  ?" 

"  I've  come  upon  a  few  letters.  I  don't  know  if  there  is 
anything  more." 

"  You  haven't  read  them,  apparently." 
*'  1  have  not.     I've  been  always  going  to  read  them,  but  I 
haven't  opened  one  of  them  yet." 

"  Then  I  recommend  you — that  is,  if  you  care  for  an  in- 
teresting  piece  of  family  history — to  read  those  letters  care- 
fully, that  is,  constructively." 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean — putting  two  and  two  together,  and  seeing  what 
comes  of  it;  trying  to  make  everything  fit  into  one,  you 
know." 

"Yes.  I  understand  you.  But  how  do  you  happen  to 
know  that  those  letters  contain  a  history,  or  that  it  will  prove 
interesting  when  I  have  found  it  ?" 

"  All  family  history  ought  to  be  interesting — at  least  to  the 
last  of  his  race,"  he  returned,  replying  only  to  the  latter  half 
of  my  question.  "It  must,  for  one  thing,  make  him  feel  his 
duty  to  his  ancestors  more  strongly." 

"  His  duty  to  marry,  I  suppose  you  mean  ?"  I  said   with 


374  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

some  inward  bitterness.  "  But  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  thmk 
the  inheritance  worth  it,  in  my  case." 

"  It  might  be  better,"  he  said,  with  an  expression  which 
seemed  odd  beside  the  simi)licity  of  the  words. 

"  All '  you  think  then  to  urge  me  to  make  money ;  and  for 
the  sake  of  my  dead  ancestors  increase  the  inheritance  of 
those  that  may  come  after  me?  But  I  believe  I  am  already 
as  diligent  as  is  good  for  me — that  is,  in  the  main,  for  I  have 
been  losing  time  of  late." 

"  I  meant  no  such  thing,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  I  should  be 
very  doubtful  whether  any  amount  of  success  in  literature 
would  enable  you  to  restore  the  fortmies  of  your  family." 

"Were  they  so  very  ponderous,  do  you  think?  But  in 
truth  I  have  little  ambition  of  that  sort.  All  I  Avill  readily 
confess  to  is  a  strong  desire  not  to  shii'k  what  work  falls  to  my 
share  in  the  world." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  thoughtful  manner — "if  one  only 
knew  what  his  share  of  the  work  was." 

The  remark  was  unexpected,  and  I  began  to  feel  a  little 
more  interest  in  him. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  take  a  copy  of  that  entry  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes — perhaps  I  had.     But  I  have  no  materials." 

It  did  not  strike  me  that  attorneys  do  not  usually,  like 
excisemen,  carry  about  an  ink-bottle,  when  he  drew  one  from 
the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  along  with  a  folded  sheet  of 
writing-paper,  which  he  opened  and  spread  out  on  the  desk. 
I  took  the  pen  he  offered  me,  and  copied  the  entry. 

When  I  had  finished,  he  said — 

"  Leave  room  under  it  for  the  attestation  of  the  parson. 
We  can  get  that  another  time,  if  necessary.  Then  write 
under  it;  '  Copied  by  me ' — and  then  your  name  and  the  date. 
It  may  be  useful  some  time.  Take  it  home  and  lay  it  with 
your  grandmother's  papers." 

"  There  can  be  no  harm  in  that,"  I  said,  as  I  folded  it  up, 
and  put  it  in  my  pocket.  "I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for 
bringing  me  here,  Mr.  Coningham.  Though  I  am  not  am- 
bitious of  restoring  the  family  to  a  grandeur  of  which  every 


UMBERDEN    CHURCH.  375 

record  has  departed,  I  am  quite  sufficiently  interested  in  its 
history,  and  shall  consequently  take  care  of  this  document." 

"  Mind  you  read  your  grandmother's  papers,  though,"  he 
said. 

"  I  will,"  I  answered. 

He  replaced  the  volume  on  the  shelf,  and  we  left  the 
church ;  he  locked  the  door  and  replaced  the  key  under  the 
gravestone  ;  we  mounted  our  horses,  and  after  riding  with  me 
about  half  the  way  to  the  Moat,  he  took  his  leave  at  a  point 
where  our  roads  diverged.  I  resolved  to  devote  that  very 
evening,  partly  in  the  hope  of  distracting  my  thoughts,  to  tht 
^reading  of  my  grandmother's  letters* 


376  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE, 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

MY  FOLIO. 

When  I  reached  home  I  found  Charley  there,  as  I  had 
expected. 

But  a  change  had  again  come  over  him.  He  was  nervous, 
restless,  apparently  anxious.  I  questioned  him  about  his 
mother  and  sister.  He  had  met  them  as  planned,  and  had,  he 
assured  me,  done  his  utmost  to  impress  them  with  the  truth 
concerning  me.  But  he  had  found  his  mother  incredulous, 
and  had  been  unable  to  discover  from  her  how  much  she  had 
heard;  while  Mary  maintained  an  obstinate  silence,  and,  as  he 
said,  looked  more  stupid  than  usual.  He  did  not  tell  me  that 
Clara  had  accompanied  them  so  far,  and  that  he  had  walked 
with  her  back  to  the  entrance  of  the  park.  This  I  heard 
afterwards.  AYlien  we  had  talked  a  while  over  the  sword- 
business — for  we  could  not  well  keep  off  it  long— Charley 
seeming  all  the  time  more  uncomfortable  than  ever,  he  said, 
perhaps  merely  to  turn  the  talk  into  a  more  pleasant 
channel — 

"  By  the  way,  where  have  you  put  your  folio"?  I've  been 
looking  for  it  ever  since  I  came  in,  but  I  can't  find  it.  A  new 
reading  started  up  in  my  head  the  other  day,  and  I  want  to 
try  it  both  w4th  the  print  and  the  context." 

"  It's  in  my  room,"  I  answered-     "  I  will  go  and  fetch  it." 

"  We  will  go  together,"  he  said. 

I  looked  where  I  thought  I  had  laid  it,  but  there  it  was  not. 
A  pang  of  foreboding  terror  invaded  me.  Charley  told  me 
afterwards  that  I  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet.  I  looked  every- 
where, but  in  vain ;  ran  and  searched  my  uncle's  room,  and 
then  Charley's,  but  still  in  vain ;  and  at  last,  all  at  once, 
remembered  with  certainty  that  two  nights  before  I  had  laid 
it  on  the  window-sill  in  my  uncle's  room.    I  shouted  for  Styles 


MY   FOLIO.  377 

but  he  was  gone  home  with  the  mare,  and  I  had  to  wait,  in 
little  short  of  agony,  until  he  returned.  The  moment  he 
entered,  I  began  to  question  him. 

"  You  took  those  books  home.  Styles  ?"  I  said,  as  quietly  as 
I  could,  anxious  not  to  startle  him,  lest  it  should  interfere 
with  the  just  action  of  his  memory. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  took  them  at  once,  and  gave  them  into  Miss 
Pease's  own  hand ;  at  least  I  suppose  it  was  Miss  Pease.  She 
wasn't  a  young  lady,  sir." 

"  All  right,  I  dare  say.     How  many  were  there  of  them  ?'' 

«  Six,  sir." 

"  I  told  you  five,"  I  said,  trembling  with  apprehension  and 
wrath. 

"  You  said  four  or  five,  and  I  never  thought  but  the  six 
were  to  go.     They  were  all  together  on  the  window-sill." 

I  stood  speechless.     Charley  took  up  the  questioning. 

"  What  sized  books  were  they  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Pretty  biggish — one  of  them  quite  a  large  one — the  same 
Pve  seen  you,  gentlemen,  more  than  once  putting  your  heads 
together  over.     At  least  it  looked  like  it." 

Charley  started  up  and  began  pacing  about  the  room. 
Styles  saw  he  had  committed  some  dreadful  mistake,  and 
began  a  blundering  expression  of  regret,  but  neither  of  us 
took  any  notice  of  him,  and  he  crept  out  in  dismay. 

It  was  some  time  before  either  of  us  could  utter  a  word. 
The  loss  of  the  sword  was  a  trifle  to  this.  Beyond  a  doubt 
the  precious  tome  was  now  lying  in  the  library  of  Moldwarp 
Hall  —amongst  old  friends  and  companions,  possibly — where 
years  might  elapse  before  one  loving  hand  would  open  it,  or 
any  eyes  gaze  on  it  with  reverence. 

"  Lost,  Charley !"  I  said  at  last. — "  Irrecoverably  lost !" 

"  I  will  go  and  fetch  it,"  he  cried,  starting  up.  "  I  will  tell 
Clara  to  bring  it  out  to  me.  It  is  beyond  endurance  this. 
Why  should  you  not  go  and  claim  what  both  of  us  can  take 
our  oath  to  as  yours  ?" 

"  You  forget,  Charley,  how  the  sword  affair  cripples  us — 
and  how  the  claiming  of  this  volume  would  only  render  their 


378  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

belief  with  regard  to  the  other  the  more  probable.  You 
forget,  too,  that  I  might  have  placed  it  in  the  chest  first, 
and  above  all  that  the  name  on  the  title-page  is  the  same 
as  the  initials  on  the  blade  of  the  sword, — the  same  as  my 
own." 

"  Yes — I  see  it  won  t  do.  And  yet  if  I  were  to  represent 
the  thing  to  Sir  Giles  ? — lie  doesn't  care  for  old  books " 

"  You  forget,  again,  Charley,  that  the  volume  is  of  great 
money-value.  Perhaps  my  late  slip  has  made  me  fastidious — 
but  though  the  book  be  mine — and  if  I  had  it,  the  proof  of 
the  contrary  would  lie  with  them — I  could  not  take  advantage 
of  Sir  Giles's  ignorance  to  recover  it." 

"  I  might,  however,  get  Clara — she  is  a  favorite  with  him, 
you  know " 

"  I  will  not  hear  of  it,"  I  said,  interrupting  him,  and  he  was 
forced  to  yield. 

"  No,  Charley,"  I  said  again  ;  "  I  must  just  bear  it.  Harder 
things  have  been  borne,  and  men  have  got  through  the  world 
and  out  of  it  notwithstanding.  If  there  isn't  another  world, 
why  should  we  care  much  for  the  loss  of  what  must  go  with 
the  rest  ? — and  if  there  is,  why  should  w-e  care  at  all  ?" 

"  Very  fine,  Wilfrid  !  but  when  you  come  to  the  practice — 
why,  the  less  said  the  better." 

"  But  that  is  the  very  point :  we  don't  come  to  the  practice. 
If  we  did,  then  the  ground  of  it  would  be  proved  unobjec- 
tionable." 

"  True  ;  but  if  the  practice  be  unattainable " 

"  It  would  take  much  proving  to  prove  that  to  my — (dissatis- 
faction, I  should  say ;  and  more  failure  besides,  I  can  tell  you, 
than  there  will  be  time  for  in  this  world.  If  it  were  proved, 
however — don't  you  see  it  would  disprove  both  suppositions 
equally  ?  If  such  a  philosophical  spirit  be  unattainable,  it 
discredits  both  sides  of  the  alternative,  on  either  of  which 
would  it  have  been  reasonable." 

"  There  is  a  sophism  there,  of  course,  but  I  am  not  in  the 
mood  of  pulling  your  logic  to  pieces,"  returned  Charley,  still 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 


MY  FOLIO.  379 

In  sum,  notliing  would  come  of  all  our  talk  but  the  assu- 
rance that  the  volume  was  equally  irrecoverable  with  the 
sword,  and  indeed  with  my  poor  character— at  least  in  the  eyes 
of  my  immediate  neighbors. 


380  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDB. 


CHAPTER  XL\^II. 

THE   LETTERS  AND   THEIR   STORY. 

As  soon  as  Charley  went  to  bed,  I  betook  myself  to  my 
grandmother's  room,  in  which,  before  discovering  my  loss,  I 
had  told  Styles  to  kindle  a  fire.  I  had  said  nothing  to  Char- 
ley about  my  ride,  and  the  old  church,  and  the  marriage- 
register.  For  the  time,  indeed,  I  had  almost  lost  what  small 
interest  I  had  taken  in  the  matter — my  new  bereavement  was 
so  absorbing  and  painful ;  but  feeling  certain  when  he  left  me 
that  I  should  not  be  able  to  sleep,  but  would  be  tormented  all 
night  by  innumerable  mental  mosquitoes  if  I  made  the  at- 
tempt, and  bethinking  me  of  my  former  resolution,  I  proceeded 
to  carry  it  out. 

The  fire  was  burning  brightly,  and  my  reading  lamp  was  on 
the  table,  ready  to  be  lighted.  But  I  sat  down  first  in  my 
grandmother's  chair  and  mused  for  I  know  not  how  long.  At 
length  my  wandering  thoughts  rehearsed  again  the  excursion 
of  Mr.  Coningham.  I  pulled  the  copy  of  the  marriage-entry 
from  my  pocket,  and  in  reading  it  over  again,  my  curiosity 
was  sufiiciently  aroused  to  send  me  to  the  bureau.  I  lighted 
my  lamp  at  last,  unlocked  what  had  seemed  to  my  childhood 
a  treasury  of  unknown  marvels,  took  from  it  the  packet  of  yel- 
low, withered  letters,  and  sat  down  again  by  the  fire  to  read, 
in  my  great-grandmother's  chair,  the  letters  of  Wilfrid  Cum- 
bermede  Daryll — for  so  he  signed  himself  in  all  of  them — my 
great-grandfather.  There  were  amongst  them  a  few  of  her 
own  in  reply  to  his — badly  written  and  badly  spelt,  but  per- 
fectly intelligible.  I  will  not  transcribe  any  of  them — I  have 
them  to  show  if  needful — but  not  at  my  command  at  the  pre- 
sent moment ; — for  I  am  writing  neither  where  I  commenced 
my  story — on  the  outskirts  of  an  ancient  city,  nor  at  the 
Moat,  but  in  the  dreary  old  square  in  London  ;  and  those 


THE    LETTERS   AND    THEIR   STORY.  381 

letters  lie  locked  again  in  the  old  bureau,  and  have  lain  un- 
visited  through  thousands  of  desolate  days  and  slow  creeping 
nights,  in  that  room  which  I  cannot  help  feeling  sometimes  as 
if  the  ghost  of  that  high-spirited,  restless-hearted  grandmother 
of  mine  must  now  and  then  revisit,  sitting  in  the  same  old 
chair,  and  wondering  to  find  how  far  it  has  all  receded  from 
her — wondering  also  to  think  what  a  work  she  made,  through 
her  long  and  weary  life,  about  things  that  look  to  her  now  such 
trifles. 

I  do  not  then  transcribe  any  of  the  letters,  but  give,  in  a  con- 
nected form,  what  seem  to  me  the  facts  I  gathered  from  them; 
not  hesitating  to  present,  where  they  are  required,  self-evident 
conclusions  as  if  they  were  facts  mentioned  in  them.  I  repeat 
that  none  of  my  names  are  real,  although  they  all  point  at 
the  real  names. 

Wilfrid  Cumbermede  was  the  second  son  of  Eichard  and 
Mary  Daryll  of  Moldwarp  Hall.  He  was  baptized  Cumber- 
mede froDi  the  desire  to  keep  in  memory  the  name  of  a 
celebrated  ancestor,  the  owner  in  fact  of  the  disputed  sword — 
itself  alluded  to  in  the  letters, — who  had  been  more  mindful 
of  the  supposed  rights  of  his  king  than  the  next  king  was-  of 
the  privations  undergone  for  his  sake,  for  Moldwarp  Hall  at 
least  was  never  recovered  from  the  roundhead  branch  of  the 
family  into  whose  possession  it  had  drifted.  In  the  change, 
however,  which  creeps  on  with  new  generations,  there  had 
been  in  the  family  a  reaction  of  sentiment  in  favor  of  the  more 
distinguished  of  its  progenitors  ;  and  Richard  Daryll,  a  man 
of  fierce  temper  and  overbearing  disposition,  had  named  his 
son  after  the  cavalier.  A  tyrant  in  his  family,  at  least  in  the 
judgment  of  the  writers  of  those  letters,  he  apparently  found 
no  trouble  either  with  his  wife  or  his  eldest  or  youngest  son ; 
while,  whether  his  own  fault  or  not,  it  was  very  evident  that 
from  Wilfrid  his  annoyances  had  been  numerous. 

A  legal  feud  had  for  some  time  existed  between  the  Ahab 
of  Moldwarp  Hall  and  the  Naboth  of  the  Moat,  the  descen- 
dant of  an  ancient  yeoman  family  of  good  blood,  and  indeed 
related  to  the  Darylls  themselves,  of  the  name  of  WoodrufFe. 


382  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Sir  Richard  had  cast  covetous  eyes  upon  the  field  surrounding 
Stephen's  comparatively  humble  abode,  which  had  at  one  time 
formed  a  part  of  the  Moldwarp  property.  In  searching  through 
some  old  parchracnti;,  he  had  luuiid,  or  rather,  I  suppose,  per- 
suaded himself  he  had  found  suthcient  evidence  that  this  part 
of  the  property  of  the  Moat,  then  of  considerable  size,  had 
been  willed  away  in  contempt  of  the  entail  which  covered  it, 
and  belonged  by  right  to  himself  and  his  heirs.  He  had 
therefore  instituted  proceedings  to  recover  possession,  during 
the  progress  of  which  their  usual  bickerings  and  disputes  aug- 
mented in  fierceness.  A  decision  having  at  length  been  given  in 
favor  of  the  weaker  party,  the  mortification  of  Sir  Richard  was 
unendurable  to  himself,  and  his  wrath  and  unreasonableness, 
in  consequence,  equally  unendurable  to  his  family.  One  may 
then  imagine  the  paroxysm  of  rage  with  which  he  was  seized 
when  he  discovered  that,  during  the  whole  of  the  legal  process, 
his  son  Wilfrid  had  been  making  love  to  Elizabeth  Woodruffe, 
the  only  child  of  his  enemy.  In  Wilfrid's  letters,  the  part  of 
the  story  which  follows  is  fully  detailed  for  Elizabeth's  infor- 
mation, of  which  the  reason  is  also  plain — that  the  writer  had 
spent  such  a  brief  period  afterwards  in  Elizabeth's  society, 
that  he  had  not  been  able  for  very  shame  to  recount  the 
particulars. 

No  sooner  had  Sir  Richard  come  to  a  knowledge  of  the 
hateful  fact,  evidently  through  one  of  his  servants,  than  sup- 
pressing the  outburst  of  his  rage  for  the  moment,  he  sent  for 
his  son  Wilfrid,  and  informed  him,  his  lips  quivering  with  sup- 
pressed passion,  of  the  discovery  he  had  made ;  accused  him  of 
having  brought  disgrace  on  the  family,  and  of  having  been 
guilty  of  falsehood  and  treachery;  and  ordered  him  to  go 
down  on  his  knees  and  abjure  the  girl  before  heaven,  or  expect 
a  father's  vengeance. 

But  evidently  Wilfrid  was  as  little  likely  as  any  man  to 
obey  such  a  command.  He  boldly  avowed  his  love  for  Eliza- 
beth, and  declared  his  intention  of  marrying  her.  His  father, 
foaming  mth  rage,  ordered  his  servants  to  seize  him.  Over- 
mastered in  spite  of  his  struggles,  he  bound  him  to  a  pillar. 


THE   LETTERS   AND   THEIR   STORY.  383 

and  taking  a  horse-whip,  lashed  him  furiously ;  then,  after  hia 
j^ge  was  thus  in  a  measure  appeased,  ordered  them  to  carry 
him  to  his  bed.  There  he  remained,  hardly  able  to  move,  the 
whole  of  that  night  and  the  next  day.  On  the  following  night 
he  made  his  escape  from  the  Hall,  and  took  refuge  with  a  far- 
mer-friend a  few  miles  off — in  the  neighborhood,  probably  of 
Umber  den  church. 

Here  I  would  suggest  a  conjecture  of  my  own — namely, 
that  my  ancestor's  room  was  the  same  I  had  occupied,  so — 
fatally,  shall  I  say? — to  myself,  on  the  only  two  occasions  on 
which  I  had  slept  at  the  Hall ;  that  he  escaped  by  the  stair  to 
the  roof,  having  first  removed  the  tapestry  from  the  door,  as 
a  memorial  to  himself,  and  a  sign  to  those  he  left ;  that  he 
carried  with  him  the  sword  and  the  volume — both  probably 
lying  in  his  room  at  the  time,  and  the  latter  little  valued  by 
any  other.     But  all  this,  I  repeat,  is  pure  conjecture. 

As  soon  as  he  was  sufficiently  recovered,  he  communicated 
with  Elizabeth,  prevailed  upon  her  to  marry  him  at  once  at 
Umberden  church,  and  within  a  few  days,  as  near  as  I  could 
judge,  left  her  to  join,  as  a  volunteer,  the  army  of  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland,  then  fighting  the  French  in  the  Netherlands. 
Probably,  from  the  morbid  fear  lest  the  disgrace  his  father's 
brutality  had  inflicted  should  become  known  in  his  regiment, 
he  dropped  the  surname  of  Daryll  w^hen  he  joined  it ;  and — 
for  what  precise  reasons  I  cannot  be  certain — his  wife  evident- 
ly never  called  herself  by  any  other  name  than  Cumbermede. 
Very  likely  she  kept  her  marriage  a  secret,  save  from  her  own 
family,  until  the  birth  of  my  grandfather,  which  certainly 
took  place  before  her  husband's  return.  Indeed  I  am  almost 
sure  that  he  never  returned  from  that  campaign,  but  died 
fighting,  not  unlikely  at  the  battle  of  Laffeldt ;  and  that  my 
grannie's  letters,  which  I  found  in  the  same  pocket,  had  been, 
by  the  kindness  of  some  comrade,  restored  to  the  young  widow. 

When  I  had  finished  reading  the  letters,  and  had  again 
thrown  myself  back  in  the  old  chair,  I  began  to  wonder  why 
nothing  of  all  this  should  ever  have  been  told  me.  That  the 
whole  history  should  have  dropped  out  of  the  knowledge  of 


384  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

the  fiimily  would  have  been  natural  enough,  had  my  great- 
grandmother,  a.s  well  as  my  great-grandfather,  died  in  youth^ 
but  that  she  should  have  outlived  her  son,  dying  only  after  I, 
the  representative  of  the  fourth  generation,  was  a  boy  at  school, 
and  yet  no  whisper  have  reached  me  of  these  facts,  appeared 
strange.  A  moment's  reflection  showed  me  that  the  causes  and 
the  reasons  of  the  fact  must  have  lain  with  my  uncle.  I  could 
not  but  remember  how  both  he  and  my  aunt  had  sought  to 
prevent  me  from  seeing  my  grannie  alone,  and  how  the  last 
had  complained  of  this  in  terms  far  more  comprehensible  to 
me  novv  than  they  were  then.  But  what  could  have  been  the 
reasons  for  this  their  obstruction  of  the  natural  flow  of  tradi- 
tion ?  They  remained  wrapt  in  a  mystery  which  the  outburst 
from  it  of  an  occasional  gleam  of  congenial  light  only  served 
to  deepen. 

The  letters  lying  open  on  the  table  before  me,  my  eyes 
rested  upon  one  of  the  dates — the  third  day  of  March,  1747. 
It  struck  me  that  this  date  involved  a  discrepancy  with  that 
of  the  copy,  I  had  made  from  the  register.  I  referred  to  it, 
and  found  my  suspicion  correct.  According  to  the  copy,  my 
ancestors  were  not  married  until  the  15th  of  January,  1748. 
I  must  have  made  a  blunder — and  yet  I  could  hardly  believe 
I  had,  for  I  had  reason  to  consider  myself  accurate.  If  these 
was  no  mistake,  I  should  have  to  reconstruct  my  facts,  and 
draw  fresh  conclusions. 

By  this  time,  however,  I  was  getting  tired  and  sleepy  and 
cold  ;  my  lamp  was  nearly  out ;  my  fire  was  quite  gone ;  and 
the  first  of  a  frosty  dawn  was  beginning  to  break  in  the  east. 
I  rose  and  replaced  the  papers,  reserving  all  further  thought  on 
the  matter  for  a  condition  of  circumstances  more  favorable  to 
a  correct  judgment.  I  blew  out  the  lamp,  groped  my  way  to 
bed  in  the  dark,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep,  in  despite  of  insult, 
mortification,  perplexity  and  loss. 


ONLY    A    LINK.  385 


CHAPTEE  XLVIIL 

ONLY  A  LINK. 

It  may  be  said  of  the  body  in  regard  of  sleep  as  well  as  in 
regard  of  death,  "  It  is  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power." 
For  me,  the  next  morning,  I  could  almost  have  said,  "I  was 
sown  in  dishonor  and  raised  in  glory."  No  one  can  deny  the 
power  of  the  wearied  body  to  paralyze  the  soul ;  but  I  have  a 
correlate  theory  which  I  love,  and  which  I  expect  to  find  true 
that,  while  the  body  wearies  the  mind,  it  is  the  mind  that 
restores  vigor  to  the  body,  and  then,  like  the  man  who  has 
built  him  a  stately  palace,  rejoices  to  dwell  in  it.  I  believe 
that,  if  there  be  a  living,  conscious  love  at  the  heart  of  the 
universe,  the  mind,  in  the  quiescence  of  its  consciousness  in 
sleep,  comes  into  a  less  disturbed  contact  with  its  origin,  the 
heart  of  the  creation ;  whence,  gifted  with  calmness  and  strength 
for  itself,  it  grows  able  to  impart  comfort  and  restoration  to  the 
weary  frame.  The  cessation  of  labor  affords  but  the  necessary 
occasion ;  makes  it  possible,  as  it  were,  for  the  occupant  of  an 
outlying  station  in  the  wilderness  to  return  to  his  father's  house 
for  fresh  supplies  of  all  that  is  needful  for  life  and  energy. 
The  child-soul  goes  home  at  night,  and  returns  in  the  morning 
to  the  labors  of  the  school.  Mere  physical  rest  could  never  of 
its  own  negative  self  build  up  the  frame  in  such  light  and  vigor 
as  come  through  sleep. 

It  was  from  no  blessed  vision  that  I  woke  the  next  morning, 
but  from  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep.  Yet  the  moment  I  be- 
came aware  of  myself  and  the  world,  I  felt  strong  and  coura- 
geous, and  I  began  at  once  to  look  my  affairs  in  the  face.  Con- 
cerning that  which  was  first  in  consequence,  I  soon  satisfied 
myself:  I  could  not  see  that  I  had  committed  any  serious  fault 
in  the  whole  affair.  I  was  not  at  all  sure  that  a  lie  in  defence 
of  the  innocent,  and  to  prevent  the  knowledge  of  what  no  one 
25 


386  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

had  any  right  to  know,  was  wrong — seeing  such  involves  no 
injustice  on  the  one  side,  and  does  justice  on  the  other.  I  have 
seen  reason  since  to  change  my  mind,  and  count  my  liberty 
restricted  to  eilence — not  extending,  that  is,  to  the  denial  or 
assertion  of  what  the  will  of  God,  inasmuch  as  it  exists  or  does 
not  exist,  may  have  declared  to  be  or  not  to  be  fact.  I  now 
think  that  to  lie  is,  aa  it  were,  to  snatch  the  reins  out  of  God's 
hand. 

At  all  events,  however,  I  had  done  the  Brothertons  no 
wrong. 

"  What  matter,  then,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  of  what  they  be- 
lieve me  guilty,  so  long  as  before  God  and  my  own  conscience 
I  am  clear  and  clean  T' 

Next  came  the  practical  part : — "What  was  I  to  do  ?  To  right 
myself,  either  in  respect  of  their  opinion  or  in  respect  of  my 
lost  property,  was  more  hopeless  than  important,  and  I  hardly 
wasted  two  thoughts  upon  that.     But  I   could   not  remain 
where  I  was,  and  soon  came  to  the  resolution  to  go  with  Char- 
ley to  London  at  once,  and  taking  lodgings  in  some  secure 
recess  near  the  inns  of  court,  there  to  give  myself  to  work,  and 
work  alone,  in  the  foolish  hope  that  one  day  fame  might  but- 
tress reputation.     In  this  resolution  I  was  more  influenced  by 
the  desire  to  be  near  the  brother  of  Mary  Osborne,  than  the 
desire  to  be  near  my  friend  Charley,  strong  as  that  was;  I  ex- 
pected thus  to  hear  of  her  oftener,  and  even  cherished  the  hope 
of  coming  to  hear  from  her — of  inducing  her  to  honor  me  with 
a  word  or  two  of  immediate  communication.     For  I  could  see 
no  reason  why  her  opinions  should  prevent  her  from  corre- 
spondmg  with  one  who,  whatever  might  or  might  not  seem  to 
him  true,  yet  cared  for  the  truth,  and  must  treat  with  respect 
every  form  in  which  he  could  descry  its  predominating  pre- 
sence. 

I  would  have  asked  Charley  to  set  out  with  me  that  very 
day,  but  for  the  desire  to  clear  up  the  discrepancy  between  the 
date  of  my  ancestor's  letters,  all  written  within  the  same  year, 
and  that  of  the  copy  I  had  made  of  the  registration  of  their 
marriage — with  which  object  I  would  compare  the  copy  and  the 


ONLY   A    LINK.  387 

original.  I  wished  also  to  have  some  talk  with  Mr.  Coningham 
concerning  the  contents  of  the  letters  which  at  his  urgency  I 
had  now  read.  I  got  up  and  wrote  to  him  therefore,  asking 
him  to  ride  with  me  again  to  Umberden  Church  as  soon  as  he 
could  make  it  convenient,  and  sent  Styles  off  at  once  on  the 
mare  to  carry  the  note  to  Minstercombe  and  bring  me  back  an 
answer. 

As  we  sat  over  our  breakfast,  Charley  said  suddenly, 
"  Clara  was  regretting  yesterday  that  she  had  not  seen  the 
Moat.     She  said  you  had  asked  her  once,  but  had  never  spoken 
of  it  again." 

"  And  now  I  suppose  she  thinks,  because  I'm  in  disgrace  with 
her  friends  at  the  Hall,  that  she  mustn't  come  near  me,"  I  said, 
with  another  bitterness  than  belonged  to  the  words. 

"  Wilfrid  !"  he  said  reproachfully  ;  "  she  didn't  say  anything 
of  the  sort.  I  will  write  and  ask  her  if  she  couldn't  contrive 
to  come  over.     She  might  meet  us  at  the  park  gates." 

"  No,"  I  returned ;  "  there  isn't  time.  I  mean  to  go  back  to 
London — perhaps  to-morrow  evening.  It  is  like  turning  you 
out,  Charley,  but  we  shall  be  nearer  each  other  in  town  than 
we  were  last  time." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  he  said.  "  I  had  been  thinking 
myself  that  I  had  better  go  back  this  evening.  My  father  is 
expected  home  in  a  day  or  two,  and  it  would  be  just  like  him 
to  steal  a  march  on  my  chambers.  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  go 
to-night." 

"  Very  well,  old  boy,"  I  answered.  "  That  will  make  it  all 
right.  It's  a  pity  we  couldn't  take  the  journey  together,  but  it 
doesn't  matter  much.  I  shall  follow  you  as  soon  as  I  can." 
"  Why  can't  you  go  with  me  ?"  he  asked. 
Thereupon  I  gave  him  a  full  report  of  my  excursion  with 
Mr.  Coningham,  and  the  after-reading  of  my  letters,  with  my 
reason  for  wishing  to  examine  the  register  again;  telling  him 
that  I  had  asked  Mr.  Coningham  to  ride  with  me  once  more  to 
Umberden  Church. 

When  Styles  returned,  he  informed  me  that  IMr.  Coningham 
at  first  proposed  to  ride  back  with  him,  but  probably  bethink- 


388  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

iiig  himself  that  another  sixteen  miles  would  be  too  much  for 
my  mare,  had  changed  his  mind  and  sent  me  the  message  that 
he  would  be  with  me  early  the  next  day. 

After  Charley  was  gone,  I  spent  the  evening  in  a  thorough 
search  of  the  old  bureau.  I  found  in  it  several  quaint  orna- 
ments besides  those  already  mentioned,  but  only  one  thing 
which  any  relation  to  my  story  would  justify  specific  mention 
of — namely,  an  ivory  label,  discolored  with  age,  on  which  was 
traceable  the  very  number  Sir  Giles  Lad  read  from  the  scab- 
bard of  Sir  AVilfrid's  sword.  Clearly  then  my  sword  was  the 
one  mentioned  in  the  book,  and  as  clearly  it  had  not  been  at 
Moldwarp  Hall  for  a  long  time  before  I  lost  it  there.  If  I 
were  in  any  fear  as  to  my  reader's  acceptance  of  my  story,  I 
should  rejoice  in  the  possession  of  that  label  more  than  in  the 
restoration  of  sword  or  book;  but  amidst  all  my  troubles,  I 
have  as  yet  been  able  to  rely  upon  her  justice  and  her  know- 
ledge of  myself  Yes,  I  must  mention  one  thing  more  I  found ; 
a  long,  sharp-pointed,  straight-backed,  snake-edged  Indian 
dagger,  inlaid  with  silver — a  fierce,  dangerous,  almost  venom- 
ous-looking weapon,  in  a  curious  case  of  old  green  morocco.  It 
also  may  have  once  belonged  to  the  armory  of  Moldwarp  Hall. 
I  took  it  with  me  when  I  left  my  grannie's  room,  and  laid  it 
in  the  portmanteau  I  was  going  to  take  to  London. 

My  only  difiiculty  was  what  to  do  with  Lilith ;  but  I  resolved 
for  the  mean  time  to  leave  her,  as  before,  in  the  care  of  Styles, 
who  seemed  almost  as  fond  of  her  as  I  was  myself. 


A   DISCLOSURE.  389 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

A   DISCLOSURE. 

Mr.  Coningham  was  at  my  door  by  ten  o'clock,  and  we  set 
out  together  for  Umberden  Church.  It  was  a  cold,  clear 
morning.  The  dying  autumn  was  turning  a  bright,  thin,  de- 
fiant face  upon  the  conquering  winter.  I  was  in  great  spirits, 
my  mind  being  full  of  Mary  Osborne.  At  one  moment  I  saw 
but  her  own  ordinary  face,  only,  what  I  had  used  to  regard  as 
dullness  I  now  interpreted  as  the  possession  of  her  soul  in 
patience ;  at  another  I  saw  the  glorified  countenance  of  my 
Athanasia,  knowing  that  beneath  the  veil  of  the  other,  this, 
the  real,  the  true  face  ever  lay.  Once  in  my  sight,  the  frost- 
clung  flower  had  blossomed ;  in  full  ideal  of  glory  it  had  shone 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  folding  itself  again  away,  had  retired 
into  the  regions  of  faith.  And  while  I  knew  that  such  could 
dawn  out  of  such,  how  could  I  help  hoping  that  from  the  face 
of  the  universe,  however  to  my  eyes  it  might  sometimes  seem 
to  stare  like  the  seven-days  dead,  one  morn  might  dawn  the 
unspeakable  face  which  even  Moses  might  not  behold  lest  he 
should  die  of  the  great  sight  ?  The  keen  air,  the  bright  sun- 
shine, the  swift  motion — all  combined  to  raise  my  spirits  to  an 
unwonted  pitch  ;  but  it  was  a  silent  ecstasy,  and  I  almost  for- 
got the  presence  of  Mr.  Coningham.  When  he  spoke  at  last, 
I  started. 

"  I  thought  from  yonr  letter  you  had  something  to  tell  me, 
Mr.  Cumbermede,"  he  said,  coming  alongside  of  me. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure.     I  have  been  reading  my  grannie's  papers 
as  I  told  you." 

I  recounted  the  substance  of  what  I  had  found  in  them. 

"  Does  it  not  strike  you  as  rather  strange  that  all  this  should 
have  been  kept  a  secret  from  you  ?"  he  asked. 


390  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"Very  few  know  anything  about  their  grandfathers,"  I  said; 
"  so  I  suppose  very  few  fathers  care  to  tell  their  children  about 
them." 

**  That  is  because  there  are  so  few  concerning  whom  there  is 
anvthinij^  worth  tcllino;." 

"For  my  part,"  I  returned,  "I  should  think  any  fact  con- 
cerning one  of  those  who  link  me  with  the  infinite  past  out  of 
which  I  have  come,  invaluable.  Even  a  fact  which  is  not  to 
the  credit  of  an  ancestor  may  be  a  precious  discovery  to  the 
man  who  has  in  himself  to  fight  the  evil  derived  from  it." 

"  That,  however,  is  a  point  of  view  rarely  taken.  AVhat  the 
ordinary  man  values  is  also  rare ;  hence  few  regard  their  an- 
cestry, or  transmit  any  knowledge  they  may  have  of  those  who 
have  gone  before  them  to  those  that  come  after  them." 

"  My  uncle,  however,  I  suppose,  told  me  nothing  because, 
unlike  the  many,  he  prized  neither  wealth  nor  rank ;  nor  what 
are  commonly  considered  great  deeds." 

"  You  are  not  far  from  the  truth  there,"  said  Mr.  Coningham 
in  a  significant  tone. 

"  Then  you  know  why  he  never  told  me  anything !"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"  I  do — from  the  best  authority." 

"  His  own,  you  mean,  I  suppose." 

"  I  do." 

"  But — but — I  didn't  know  you  were  ever — at  all — intimate 
with  my  uncle,"  I  said. 

He  laughed  knowingly. 

"  You  would  say,  if  you  didn't  mind  speaking  the  truth, 
that  you  thought  your  uncle  disliked  me — disapproved  of  me. 
Come  now — did  he  not  try  to  make  you  avoid  me?  You 
needn't  mind  acknowledging  the  fact,  for  when  I  have  ex- 
plained the  reason  of  it,  you  will  see  that  it  involves  no  dis- 
credit to  either  of  us." 

"  I  have  no  fear  for  my  uncle." 

"  You  are  honest,  if  not  over  polite,"  he  rejoined.  "  You 
do  not  feel  so  sure  about  my  share.  Well,  I  don't  mind  who 
knows  it,  for  my  part.      I  roused   the  repugnance,  to  the 


A   DISCLOSURE.  391 

knowledge  of  which  your  silence,  confesses,  merely  by  acting 
as  any  professional  man  ought  to  have  acted — and  with  the 
best  intentions.  At  the  same  time,  all  the  blame  I  should 
ever  think  of  casting  upon  him  is,  that  he  allowed  his  high- 
strung,  saintly,  I  had  almost  said  superhuman  ideas  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  nephew's  prosperity." 

"  Perhaps  he  was  afraid  of  that  prosperity  standing  in  the 
way  of  a  better." 

"  Precisely  so.  You  understand  him  perfectly.  He  was  on© 
of  the  best  and  simplest-minded  men  in  the  world." 

"  I  am  glad  you  do  him  that  justice." 

"  At  the  same  time  I  do  not  think  he  intended  you  to  remain 
in  absolute  ignorance  of  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  But 
you  see,  he  died  very  suddenly.  Besides,  he  could  hardly 
expect  I  should  hold  my  tongue  after  he  was  gone." 

"  Perhaps,  however,  he  might  expect  me  not  to  cultivate 
your  acquaintance,"  I  said,  laughing  to  take  the  sting  out  of 
the  words. 

"  You  cannot  accuse  yourself  of  having  taken  any  trouble 
in  that  direction,"  he  returned,  laughing  also. 

"  I  believe,  however,"  I  resumed,  "  from  what  I  can  recall  of 
things  he  said,  especially  on  one  occasion  on  which  he  acknowl- 
edged the  existence  of  a  secret  in  which  I  was  interested,  he 
did  not  intend  that  I  should  always  remain  in  ignorance  of 
everything  he  thought  proper  to  conceal  from  me  then." 

"  I  presume  you  are  right.  I  think  his  conduct  in  this 
respect  arose  chiefly  from  anxiety  that  the  formation  of 
your  character  should  not  be  influenced  by  the  knowledge  of 
certain  facts  which  might  unsettle  you,  and  prevent  you  from 
reaping  the  due  advantages  of  study  and  self-dependence  in 
youth.  I  cannot,  however,  believe  that  by  being  open  with 
you  I  shall  now  be  in  danger  of  thwarting  his  plans,  for  you 
have  already  proved  yourself  a  wise,  moderate,  conscientious  . 
man,  diligent  and  pains-taking.  Forgive  me  for  appearing  to 
praise  you.  I  had  no  such  intention.  1  was  only  uttering  as 
a  fact  to  be  considered  in  the  question,  what  upon  my  honor  I 
thoroughly  believe." 


392  WILFRID    CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  should  be  happy  in  your  good  opiuiou,  if  I  were  able  to 
appropriate  it,"  I  sfaid.  "  But  a  man  kuows  his  own  faults 
better  than  his  neighbor  knows  his  virtues." 

"  Spoken  like  the  man  I  took  you  for,  Mr.  Cumbermede," 
he  rejoined  gravely. 

"  But  to  return  to  the  matter  in  hand,"  I  resumed :  "  what 
can  there  be  so  dangerous  in  the  few  facts  I  have  just  come  to 
the  knowledge  of,  that  my  uncle  should  have  cared  to  conceal 
them  from  me  ?  That  a  man  born  in  humble  circumstances 
should  come  to  know  that  he  had  distinguished  ancestors, 
could  hardly  so  fill  him  with  false  notions  as  to  endanger  his 
relation  to  the  laws  of  his  existence." 

"  Of  course — but  you  are  too  hasty.  Those  facts  are  of 
more  importance  than  you  are  aware — involve  other  facts. 
Mold  warp  Hall  is  your  property,  and  not  Sir  Giles  Bro- 
therton's." 

"  Then  the  apple  was  my  own,  after  all !"  I  said  to  myself 
exultingly.  It  was  a  strange  fantastic  birth  of  conscience  and 
memory, — forgotten  the  same  moment,  and  followed  by  an 
electric  flash — not  of  hope,  not  of  delight,  not  of  pride,  but  of 
pure  revenge.  My  whole  frame  quivered  with  the  shock  ;  yet 
for^  a  moment  I  seemed  to  have  the  strength  of  a  Hercules. 
In  front  of  me  was  a  stile  through  a  high  hedge :  I  turned 
Lilith's  head  to  the  hedge,  struck  my  spurs  into  her,  and  over 
or  through  it,  I  know  not  which,  she  bounded.  Already,  with 
all  the  strength  of  will  I  could  summon,  I  struggled  to  rid 
myself  of  the  wicked  feeling  ;  and  although  I  cannot  pretend 
to  have  succeeded  for  long  after,  yet  by  the  time  Mr.  Couing- 
ham  had  popped  over  the  stile,  I  was  waiting  for  him,  to  all 
appearance,  I  believe,  perfectly  calm.  He  on  the  other  hand, 
from  whatever  cause,  was  actually  trembling.  His  face  was 
pale,  and  his  eye  flashing.  Was  it  that  he  had  roused  me 
more  efl'ectually  than  he  had  hoped  ? 

"  Take  care,  take  care,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "  or  you  won't  live 
to  enjoy  your  own.  Permit  me  the  honor  of  shaking  hands 
with  Sir  Wilfrid  Cumbermede  Daryll." 

After  this   ceremonial  of  prophetic  investiture  we  jogged 


I 


A    DISCLOSURE.  893 

away  quietly,  and  he  told  me  a  long  story  about  the  death  of 
the  last  proprietor,  the  degree  in  which  Sir  Giles  was  related 
to  him,  and  his  undisputed  accession  to  the  property.  At 
that  time,  he  said,  my  father  was  in  very  bad  health,  and 
indeed  died  within  six  mouths  of  it. 

"  I  knew  your  father  well,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  he  went  on, 
" — one  of  the  best  of  men,  with  more  spirit — more  ambition 
than  your  uncle.  It  was  his  wish  that  his  child,  if  a  boy, 
should  be  called  Wilfrid — for  though  they  had  been  married 
five  or  six  years,  their  only  child  was  born  after  his  death. 
Your  uncle  did  not  like  the  name,  your  mother  told  me,  but 
made  no  objection  to  it.  So  you  were  named  after  your  grand- 
father, and  great-grandfather,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  of 
the  race  besides. — When  the  last  of  the  Darylls  died — " 

"  Then,"  I  interrupted,  "  my  father  was  the  heir.'' 

"  No  ;  you  mistake  :  your  uncle  was  the  elder — Sir  David 
Cumbermede  Daryll,  of  Mold  warp  Hall,  and  the  Moat,"  said 
Mr,  Coningham,  evidently  bent  on  making  the  most  of  my 
rights. 

"  He  never  even  told  me  he  was  the  eldest,"  I  said.  "  I 
always  thought,  from  his  coming  home  to  manage  the  farm 
when  my  father  was  ill,  that  he  was  the  second  of  the  two 
sons." 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  was  several  years  older  than  your 
father — so  that  you  mustn't  suppose  that  he  kept  you  back  from 
any  of  your  rights.    They  were  his,  not  yours,  while  he  lived." 

"  I  will  not  ask,"  I  said,  "  why  he  did  not  enforce  them. 
That  is  plain  enough  from  what  I  know  of  his  character.  The 
more  I  think  of  that,  the  loftier  and  simpler  it  seems  to  grow. 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  spend  the  energies  of  a  soul 
meant  for  higher  things  on  the  assertion  and  recovery  of 
earthly  rights." 

"  I  rather  differ  from  you  there ;  and  I  do  not  know,"  re- 
turned my  companion,  whose  tone  was  far  more  serious  than  I 
had  ever  heard  it  before, "  whether  the  explanation  I  am  going 
to  offer  will  raise  your  uncle  as  much  in  your  estimation  as  it 
does  in  mine.     I  confess  I  do  not  rank  such  self-denial  as  you 


394  WILFRID    CUMBERMEDE. 

attribute  to  him  so  highly  as  you  do.  On  the  contrary,  I 
count  it  a  fault.  How  could  the  world  go  on  if  everybody 
was  like  your  uncle  ?" 

"  If  everybody  was  like  my  uncle,  he  would  have  been 
forced  to  accept  the  position,"  I  said  ;  "  for  there  would  have 
been  no  one  to  take  it  from  him." 

"  Perhaps.  But  you  must  not  think  Sir  Giles  knew  any- 
thing of  your  uncle's  claim.     He  knows  nothing  of  it  now." 

I  had  not  thought  of  Sir  Giles  in  connection  with  the 
matter — only  of  Geoffrey ;  and  my  heart  recoiled  from  the 
notion  of  dispossessing  the  old  man,  who,  however  misled  with 
regard  to  me  at  last,  had  up  till  then  shown  me  uniform  kind- 
ness. In  that  moment  I  had  almost  resolved  on  taking  no 
steps  till  after  his  death.  But  Mr.  Coningham  soon  made  me 
forget  Sir  Giles  in  a  fresh  revelation  of  my  uncle. 

"  Although,"  he  resumed,  "  all  you  say  of  your  uncle's  indif- 
ference to  this  world  and  its  affairs  is  indubitably  correct,  I  do 
not  believe,  had  there  not  been  a  prospect  of  your  making  your 
appearance,  that  he  would  have  shirked  the  duty  of  occupying 
the  property  which  was  his  both  by  law  and  nature.  But  he 
knew  it  might  be  an  expensive  suit — for  no  one  can  tell  by 
what  tricks  of  the  law  such  may  be  prolonged — in  which  case 
all  the  money  he  could  command  would  soon  be  spent,  and 
nothing  left  either  to  provide  for  your  so-called  aunt,  for  whom 
he  had  a  great  regard,  or  to  give  you  that  education  which, 
whether  you  were  to  succeed  to  the  property  or  not,  he  counted 
indispensable.  He  cared  far  more,  he  said,  about  your  having 
such  a  property  in  yourself  as  was  at  once  personal  and  real, 
than  for  you  having  any  amount  of  property  out  of  yourself. 
Expostulation  was  of  no  use.  I  had  previously  learned — from 
the  old  lady  herself — the  true  state  of  the  case,  and,  upon  the 
death  of  Sir  Geoffrey  Daryll,  had  at  once  communicated  with 
him — which  placed  me  in  a  position  for  urging  him,  as  I  did 
again  and  again,  considerably  to  his  irritation,  to  assert  and 
prosecute  his  claim  to  the  title  and  estates.  I  offered  to  take 
the  whole  risk  upon  myself ;  but  he  said  that  would  be  tanta- 
mount to  giving  up  his  personal  liberty,  until  the  matter  was 


A   DISCLOSURE.  395 

settled,  which  might  not  be  in  his  lifetime.  I  may  just 
mention,  however,  that  besides  his  religious  absorption,  I 
strongly  suspect  there  was  another  cause  of  his  indifference  to 
worldly  affairs :  I  have  grounds  for  thinking  that  he  was  dis- 
appointed in  a  more  than  ordinary  attachment  to  a  lady  he 
met  at  Oxford — in  station  considerably  above  any  prospects 
he  had  then.  To  return :  he  was  resolved  that  whatever  might 
be  your  fate,  you  should  not  have  to  meet  it  without  such  pre- 
paration as  he  could  afford  you.  As  you  have  divined,  he  was 
most  anxious  that  your  character  should  have  acquired  some 
degree  of  firmness  before  you  knew  anything  of  the  possibility 
of  your  inheriting  a  large  property  and  historical  name  ;  and 
I  may  appropriate  the  credit  of  a  negative  share  in  the  car- 
rying out  of  his  plans,  for  you  will  bear  me  witness  how  often 
I  might  have  upset  them  by  informing  you  of  the  facts  of  the 
case." 

"  I  am  heartily  obliged  to  you,"  I  said,  "  for  not  interfering 
with  my  uncle's  wishes,  for  I  am  very  glad  indeed  that  I  have 
been  kept  in  ignorance  of  my  rights  until  now.  The  know- 
ledge would  at  one  time  have  gone  far  to  render  me  useless 
for  personal  effort  in  any  direction  worthy  of  it.  It  would 
have  made  me  conceited,  ambitious,  boastful :  I  don't  know 
how  many  bad  adjectives  would  have  been  necessary  to 
describe  me." 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  be  modest,  but  I  venture  to  think 
differently." 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  one  question,  Mr.  Coningham,"  I 
said. 

"  As  many  as  you  please." 

"How  is  it  that  you  have  so  long  delayed  giving  me  the 
information  which  on  my  uncle's  death  you  no  doubt  felt  at 
liberty  to  communicate  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  how  far  you  might  partake  of  your  uncle's 
disposition,  and  judged  that  the  wider  your  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  the  juster  your  estimate  of  the  value  of  money 
and  position,  the  more  willing  you  would  be  to  listen  to  the 
proposals  I  had  to  make." 


396  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  I  asked,  after  a  cauter,  led  off  by  my 
compauiou,  "ouo  very  stormy  night  on  which  you  suddenly 
appeared  at  the  Moat,  and  had  a  long  talk  with  my  uncle  on 
the  subject?" 

"  Perfectly,"  he  answered.  "  But  how  did  you  come  to 
know?     He  did  not  tell  of  my  visit!" 

"Certainly  not.  But,  listening  in  my  night-gown  on  the 
stair,  which  is  open  to  the  kitchen,  I  heard  enough  of  your 
talk  to  learn  the  object  of  your  visit — namely,  to  carry  off  my 
skin  to  make  bagpipes  with." 

He  laughed  so  heartily  that  I  told  him  the  whole  story  of 
the  pendulum. 

"  On  that  occasion,"  he  said,  "  I  made  the  offer  to  your 
uncle,  on  condition  of  his  sanctioning  the  commencement  of 
legal  proceedings,  to  pledge  myself  to  meet  every  expense  of 
your  education  as  well,  and  to  claim  nothing  whatever  in 
return,  except  in  case  of  success." 

This  quite  corresponded  with  my  own  childish  recollections 
of  the  interview  between  them.  Indeed  there  was  such  an  air 
of  simple  straightforwardness  about  his  whole  communication, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  accounted  so  thoroughly  for  the 
warning  my  uncle  had  given  me  against  him,  that  I  felt  I 
might  trust  him  entirely,  and  so  would  have  told  him  all  that 
had  taken  place  at  the  Hall,  but  for  the  share  his  daughter 
had  borne  in  it,  and  the  danger  of  discovery  to  Mary. 


THE   DATES.  397 


CHAPTER   L. 

THE   DATES. 

I  HAVE  given,  of  course,  only  an  epitome  of  our  conversa- 
tion, and  by  the  time  we  had  arrived  at  this  point,  we  had  also 
reached  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  Again  we  fastened  up 
our  horses  ;  again  he  took  the  key  from  under  the  tomb-stone  ; 
and  once  more  we  entered  the  dreary  little  church,  and  drew 
aside  the  curtain  of  the  vestry.  I  took  down  the  volume  of 
the  register.  The  place  was  easy  to  find,  seeing,  as  I  have 
said,  it  was  at  the  very  end  of  the  volume. 

The  copy  I  had  taken  was  correct ;  the  date  of  the  marriage 
in  the  register  was  January  15,  and  it  was  the  first  under  the 
year  1748,  written  at  the  top  of  the  page.  I  stood  for  a 
moment  gazing  at  it ;  then  my  eye  turned  to  the  entry  before 
it,  the  last  on  the  preceding  page.  It  bore  the  date  December 
13 — under  the  general  date  at  the  top  of  the  page,  1747.  The 
next  entry  after  it  was  dated  March  29.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  page,  or  cover  rather,  was  the  attestation  of  the  clergyman 
to  the  number  of  marriages  in  that  year ;  but  there  was  no 
such  attestation  at  the  bottom  of  the  preceding  page.  I 
turned  to  Mr.  Coningham,  who  had  stood  regarding  me,  and, 
pointing  to  the  book,  said — 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Coningham.  I  cannot  understand  it. 
Here  the  date  of  the  marriage  is  1748  ;  and  that  of  all  their 
letters,  evidently  written  after  the  marriage,  is  1747." 

He  looked,  and  stood  looking,  but  made  no  reply.  In  my 
turn  I  looked  at  him.  His  face  expressed  something  not  far 
from  consternation ;  but  the  moment  he  became  aware  that  I 
"was  observing  him,  he  pulled  out  his  handkerchief,  and  wiping 
his  forehead  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh,  said — 

"  How  hot  it  is !  Yes  ;  there  is  something  awkward  there. 
I   hadn't   observed   it  before.     I   must  inquire  into  that.     I 


398  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

confess  I  cannot  explain  it  all  at  once.  It  does  certainly  seem 
queer.     I  must  look  into  those  dates  when  I  go  home." 

He  was  evidently  much  more  discomposed  than  he  was 
willing  I  should  perceive.  He  always  spoke  rather  hurriedly, 
but  I  had  never  heard  him  stammer  before.  I  was  certain 
that  he  saw  or  at  least  dreaded  something  fatal  in  the  discre- 
pancy I  had  pointed  out.  As  to  looking  into  it  when  he  got 
home,  that  sounded  very  like  nonsense.  He  pulled  out  a  note- 
book, however,  and  said : 

"  I  may  just  as  well  make  a  note  of  the  blunder — for  blun- 
der it  must  be — a  very  awkward  one  indeed,  I  am  afraid.  I 
should  think  so — I  cannot — But  then — " 

He  went  on  uttering  disjointed  and  unfinished  expressions, 
while  he  made  several  notes.  His  manner  was  of  one  who 
regards  the  action  he  is  about  as  useless,  yet  would  have  it 
supposed  the  right  thing  to  do. 

"  There !"  he  said,  shutting  up  his  note-book  with  a  slam  ; 
and  turning  away  he  strode  out  of  the  place — much,  it  seemed 
to  me,  as  if  his  business  there  was  over  forever.  I  gave  one 
more  glance  at  the  volume,  and  replaced  it  on  the  shelf. 
When  I  rejoined  him,  he  was  already  mounted  and  turning  to 
move  off. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Mr.  Coningham,"  I  said.  "  I  don't 
exactly  know  where  to  put  the  key." 

"  Fling  it  under  the  grave-stone,  and  come  along,"  he  said, 
muttering  something  more,  in  which  perhaps  I  only  fancied  I 
heard  certain  well-known  maledictions. 

By  this  time  my  spirits  had  sunk  as  much  below  their 
natural  level,  as,  a  little  before,  they  had  risen  above  it.  But 
I  felt  that  I  must  be  myself,  and  that  no  evil  any  more  than 
good  fortune  ought  for  a  moment  to  perturb  the  tenor  of  my 
being.  Therefore,  having  locked  the  door  deliberately  and 
carefully,  I  felt  about  along  the  underside  of  the  grave-stone 
until  I  found  the  ledge  where  the  key  had  lain.  I  then  made 
what  haste  I  could  to  mount  and  follow  Mr.  Coningham,  but 
Lilith  delayed  the  operation  by  her  eagerness.  I  gave  her  the 
rein,  and  it  was  well  that  no  one  happened  to  be  coming  in  the 


THE   DATES.  399 

opposite  direction  through  that  narrow  and  tortuous  passage, 
for  she  flew  round  the  corners — "  turning  close  to  the  ground, 
like  a  cat  when  scratchingly  she  wheels  about  after  a  mouse," 
as  my  old  favorite  Sir  Philip  Sidney  says.  Notwithstandiug 
her  speed,  however,  when  I  reached  the  mouth  of  the  lane, 
there  was  Mr.  Coningham  half  across  the  first  field,  with  his 
coat-tails  flying  out  behind  him.  I  would  not  allow  myself  to 
be  left  in  such  a  discourteous  fashion,  and  gave  chase.  Before 
he  had  measured  the  other  half  of  the  field  I  was  up  with 
him. 

"  That  mare  of  yours  is  a  clever  one,"  he  said,  as  I  ranged 
alongside  of  him.  "  I  thought  I  would  give  her  a  breather. 
She  hasn't  enough  to  do." 

"  She's  not  breathing  so  very  fast,"  I  returned.  "  Her  wind 
is  as  good  as  her  legs." 

"  Let's  go  along  then,  for  I've  lost  a  great  deal  of  time  this 
morning.  I  ought  to  have  been  at  Squire  Strode's  an  hour  ago. 
How  hot  the  sun  is,  to  be  sure,  for  this  time  of  the  year  ?" 

As  he  spoke  he  urged  his  horse,  but  I  took  and  kept  the 
lead,  feeling,  I  confess,  a  little  angry,  for  I  could  not  help  sus- 
pecting he  had  really  wanted  to  run  away  from  me.  I  did 
what  I  could,  however,  to  behave  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
But  he  was  very  silent,  and  his  manner  towards  me  was  quite 
altered.  Neither  could  I  help  thinking  it  scarcely  worthy  of 
a  man  of  the  world,  not  to  say  a  lawyer,  to  show  himself  so 
much  chagrined.  For  my  part,  having  simply  concluded  that 
the  new-blown  bubble-hope  had  burst,  I  found  myself  just 
where  I  was  before — with  a  bend  sinister  on  my  scutcheon,  it 
might  be,  but  with  a  good  conscience,  a  tolerably  clear  brain, 
and  the  dream  of  my  Athanasia. 

The  moment  we  reached  the  road,  Mr.  Coningham  an- 
nounced that  his  was  in  the  opposite  direction  to  mine,  said 
his  good-morning,  shook  hands  with  me,  and  jogged  slowly 
away.  I  knew  that  was  not  the  nearest  way  to  Squire 
Strode's. 

I  could  not  help  laughing — he  had  so  much  the  look  of  a 
dog  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  or  a  beast  of  prey  that  had 


400  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

made  his  spring  and  missed  his  game.  I  watched  him  for 
some  time,  for  Lilith  being  pulled  both  ways — towards  home, 
and  after  her  late  companion — was  tolerably  quiescent,  but  he  I 
never  cast  a  glance  behind  him.  AVhen  at  length  a  curve  in 
the  road  hid  him  from  my  sight,  I  turned  and  went  quietly 
home,  thinking  what  the  significance  of  the  unwelcome  dis- 
covery might  be.  If  the  entry  of  the  marriage  under  that 
date  could  not  be  proved  a  mere  blunder,  of  which  I  could  see 
no  hope,  then  certainly  my  grandfather  must  be  regarded  as 
born  out  of  wedlock,  a  supposition  which,  if  correct,  would 
account  for  the  dropping  of  the  Daryll. 

On  the  way  home,  I  jumped  no  hedges. 

Having  taken  my  farewell  of  Lilith,  I  packed  my  "  bag  of 
needments,"  locked  the  door  of  my  uncle's  room,  which  I 
would  have  no  one  enter  in  my  absence,  and  set  out  to  meet 
the  night-mail. 


CHARLEY  AND  CLARA.  401 


CHAPTER  LI. 

CHARLEY  AND   CLARA. 

On  my  arrival  in  London  I  found  Charley  waiting  for  me, 
as  I  had  expected ;  and  with  his  help  soon  succeeded  in  find- 
ing, in  one  of  the  streets  leading  from  the  Strand  to  the  river, 
the  accommodation  I  wanted.  There  I  settled,  and  resumed 
the  labor  so  long  and  thanklessly  interrupted. 

When  I  recounted  the  circumstances  of  my  last  interview 
with  Mr.  Coningham,  Charley  did  not  seem  so  much  sur- 
prised at  the  prospect  which  had  opened  before  me  as  disap- 
pointed at  its  sudden  close,  and  would  not  admit  that  the 
matter  could  be  allowed  to  rest  where  it  was. 

"  Do  you  think  the  change  of  style  could  possibly  have 
anything  to  do  with  it  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  meditative  silence. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "  What  change  of  style  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I  mean  the  change  of  the  beginning  of  the  year  from 
March  to  January,"  he  answered. 

"  When  did  that  take  place?"  I  asked. 
.    "Some   time  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,"  he 
replied  ;  "  but  I  will  find  out  exactly." 

The  next  night  he  brought  me  the  information  that  the 
January  which  according  to  the  old  style  would  have  been 
that  of  1752,  was  promoted  to  belhe  first  month  of  the  year 
1753. 

My  dates  then  were,  by  several  years,  antecedent  to  the 
change,  and  it  was  an  indisputable  anachronism  that  the 
January  between  the  December  of  1747  and  the  March  of 
1748  should  be  entered  as  belonging  to  the  latter  year.  This 
seemed  to  throw  a  little  dubious  light  upon  the  perplexity : 
the  January  thus  entered  belonged  clearly  to  1747,  and  there- 
fore was  the  same  January  with  that  of  my  ancestors'  letters. 
26 


402  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Plainly,  however,  the  entry  could  not  stand  in  evidence,  its  in- 
terpolation at  least  appearing  indubitable,  for  how  otherwise 
could  it  stand  at  the  beginning  of  the  new  year  instead  of 
towards  the  end  of  the  old,  five  years  before  the  change  of 
style  ?  Also,  I  now  clearly  remembered  that  it  did  look  a 
little  crushed  between  the  heading  of  the  year  and  the  next 
entry.  It  must  be  a  forgery — and  a  stupid  one  as  well,  seeing 
the  bottom  of  the  preceding  page,  where  there  was  a  small 
blank,  would  have  been  the  proper  place  to  choose  for  it — 
that  is,  under  the  heading  1747.  Could  the  1748  have  been 
inserted  afterwards  ?  That  did  not  appear  likely,  seeing  it  be- 
longed to  all  the  rest  of  the  entries  on  the  page,  there  being 
none  between  the  date  in  question  and  March  29,  on  the  25th 
of  which  month  the  new  year  began.  The  conclusion  lying 
at  the  door  was,  that  some  one  had  inserted  the  marriage  so 
long  after  the  change  of  style  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
trap  there  lying  for  his  forgery.  It  seemed  probab'e  that, 
blindly  following  the  letters,  he  had  sought  to  place  it  in  the 
beginning  of  the  previous  year,  but,  getting  bewildered  in  the 
apparent  eccentricities  of  the  arrangement  of  month  and  year, 
or,  perhaps  finding  no  other  blank  suitable  to  his  purpose,  had 
at  last  drawn  his  bow  at  a  venture.  Neither  this  nor  any  other 
theory  I  could  fashion,  did  I  however  find  in  the  least  satis- 
factory. All  I  could  be  sure  of  was,  that  here  was  no  evidence 
of  the  marriage — on  the  contrary,  a  strong  presumption, 
against  it. 

For  my  part,  the  dream  in  which  I  had  indulged  had  been 
so  short  that  I  very  soon  recovered  from  the  disappointment 
of  the  waking  therefrom.  Neither  did  the  blot  with  which 
the  birth  of  my  grandfather  was  menaced  afiect  me  much. 
My  chief  annoyance  in  regard  of  that  aspect  of  the  afiair 
was  in  being  so  related  to  Geoffrey  Brotherton. 

I  cannot  say  how  it  came  about,  but  I  could  not  help  ob- 
serving that,  by  degrees,  a  manifest  softening  appeared  in 
Charley's  mode  of  speaking  of  his  father,  although  I  knew 
that  there  was  not  the  least  approach  to  a  more  cordial  inter- 
course between  them.     I  attributed  the  change  to  the  letters 


CHARLEY   AND   CLARA.  403 

of  his  sister,  which  he  always  gave  me  to  read.  From  them  I 
have  since  classed  her  with  a  few  others  I  have  since  known, 
chiefly  women,  the  best  of  their  kind,  so  good  and  so  large- 
minded  that  they  seem  ever  on  the  point  of  casting  aside  the 
unworthy  opinions  they  have  been  taught,  and  showing  them- 
selves the  true  followers  of  him  who  cared  only  for  the  truth ; 
and  yet  holding  by  the  doctrines  of  men,  and  believing  them 
to  be  the  mind  of  God. 

In  one  or  two  of  Charley's  letters  to  her  I  ventured  to 
insert  a  question  or  two,  and  her  reference  to  these  in  her 
replies  to  Charley  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  venturing  to 
write  to  her  more  immediately,  in  part  defending  what  I 
thought  the  truth,  in  part  expressing  all  the  sympathy  I 
honestly  could  with  her  opinions.  She  replied  very  kindly, 
very  earnestly,  and  with  a  dignity  of  expression  as  well  as  of 
thought  which  harmonized  entirely  with  my  vision  of  her 
deeper  and  grander  nature. 

The  chief  bent  of  my  energies  was  now  to  vindicate  for 
myself  a  worthy  position  in  the  world  of  letters ;  but  my 
cherished  hope  lay  in  the  growth  of  such  an  intimacy  with 
Mary  Osborne  as  might  afford  ground  for  the  cultivation  of 
lar  higher  and  more  precious  ambitions. 

It  was  not,  however,  with  the  design  of  furthering  these 
that  I  was  now  guilty  of  what  will  seem  to  most  men  a 
Quixotic  action  enough. 

"Your  sister  is  fond  of  riding — is  she  not?"  I  asked 
Charley  one  day,  as  we  sauntered  with  our  cigars  on  the  ter- 
race of  the  Adelphi. 

"  As  fond  as  one  can  possibly  be  who  has  had  so  little  op- 
portunity," he  said. 

"  I  was  hoping  to  have  a  ride  with  her  and  Clara  the  very 
evening  when  that  miserable  affair  occurred.  The  loss  of  that 
ride  was  at  least  as  great  a  disappointment  to  me  as  the  loss 
of  the  sword." 

"  You  seem  to  like  my  sister,  Wilfrid,"  he  said. 

"  At  least  I  care  more  for  her  good  opinion  than  I  do  for 
any  woman's — or  man's  either,  Charley." 


404  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  am  so  glad  !"  he  responded.  "You  like  her  better  than 
Clara,  then  ?" 

"  Ever  so  much,"  I  said. 

He  looked  more  pleased  than  annoyed,  I  thought — certainly 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  entirely.  His  eyes  sparkled, 
but  there  was  a  flicker  of  darkness  about  his  forehead. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  he  said  again,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"I  thought — I  was  afraid— I  had  fancied  sometimes — you 
were  still  a  little  in  love  with  Clara." 

"  Not  one  atom,"  I  returned.  "  She  cured  me  of  that  quite. 
There  is  no  danger  of  that  any  more,"  I  added — foolishly, 
seeing  I  intended  no  explanation. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  a  little  uneasily. 

I  had  no  answer  ready,  and  a  brief  silence  followed.  The 
subject  was  not  resumed. 

It  may  well  seem  strange  to  my  reader  that  I  had  never  yet 
informed  him  of  the  part  Clara  had  had  in  the  matter  of  the 
sword.  But,  as  I  have  already  said,  when  anything  moved 
me  very  deeply,  I  was  never  ready  to  talk  about  it.  Some- 
how, whether  from  something  of  the  cat-nature  in  me,  I  never 
liked  to  let  go  my  hold  of  it  without  good  reason.  Especially 
I  shrunk  from  imparting  what  I  only  half  comprehended ; 
and  besides,  in  the  present  case,  the  thought  of  Clara's  be- 
haviour was  so  painful  to  me  still,  that  I  recoiled  from  any 
talk  about  it — the  more  that  Charley  had  a  kind  and  good 
opinion  of  her,  and  would,  I  knew,  only  start  objections  and 
explanations  defensive,  as  he  had  done  before  on  a  similar  oc- 
casion, and  this  I  should  have  no  patience  with.  I  had  there- 
fore hitherto  held  my  tongue.  There  was,  of  course,  likewise 
the  fear  of  betraying  his  sister,  only  the  danger  of  that  was 
small,  now  that  the  communication  between  the  two  girls 
seemed  at  an  end  for  the  time ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  that  a 
certain  amount  of  mutual  reticence  had  arisen  between  us, 
first  on  Charley's  part  and  afterwards  on  mine,  I  doubt  much 
whether,  after  all,  I  should  not  by  this  time  have  told  him  the 
whole  story.  But  the  moment  I  had  spoken  as  above,  the 
strangeness  of  his  look,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that    he 


CHARLEY   AND   CLARA.  405 

would  gladly  request  me  to  explain  myself  but  for  some 
hidden  reason,  flashed  upon  me  the  suspicion  that  he  was 
himself  in  love  with  Clara.  The  moment  the  suspicion  en- 
tered, a  host  of  circumstances  crystalized  around  it.  Fact 
after  fact  flashed  out  of  my  memory,  from  the  first  meeting  of 
the  two  in  Switzerland  down  to  this  last  time  I  had  seen  them 
together,  and  in  the  same  moment  I  was  convinced  that  the 
lady  I  saw  him  with  in  the  Kegent's  Park  was  no  other  than 
Clara.  But  if  it  were  so,  why  had  he  shut  me  out  from  his 
confidence  ?  Of  the  possible  reasons  which  suggested  them- 
selves, the  only  one  which  approached  the  satisfactory  was, 
that  he  had  dreaded  hurting  me  by  the  confession  of  his  love 
for  her,  and  preferred  leaving  it  to  Clara  to  cure  me  of  a  pas- 
sion to  which  my  doubtful  opinion  of  her  gave  a  probability 
of  weakness  and  ultimate  evanescence. 

A  great  conflict  awoke  in  me.  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  How 
could  I  leave  him  in  ignorance  of  the  falsehood  of  the  woman 
he  loved  ?  But  I  could  not  make  the  disclosure  now.  I  must 
think  about  the  how  and  the  how  much  to  tell  him.  I  re- 
turned to  the  subject  which  had  led  up  to  the  discovery. 

"  Does  your  father  keep  horses,  Charley  ?" 

"  He  has  a  horse  for  his  parish  work,  and  my  mother  has 
an  old  pony  for  her  carriage." 

"  Is  the  rectory  a  nice  place  ?'* 

"  I  believe  it  is,  but  I  have  such  painful  associations  with  it 
that  I  hardly  know." 

The  Arab  loves  the  desert  sand  where  he  was  born;  the 
thief  loves  the  court  where  he  used  to  play  in  the  gutter. 
How  miserable  Charley's  childhood  must  have  been !  How 
could  I  tell  him  of  Clara's  falsehood  ? 

"  Why  doesn't  he  give  Mary  a  pony  to  ride  ?"  I  asked. 
"  But  I  suppose  he  hasn't  room  for  another." 

"  Oh  yes,  there's  plenty  of  room.  His  predecessor  was 
rather  a  big  fellow.  In  fact,  the  stables  are  on  much  too 
large  a  scale  for  a  clergyman.  I  dare  say  he  never  thought 
of  it.  I  must  do  my  father  the  justice  to  say  there's  nothing 
stingy  about  him,  and  I  believe  he  loves  my  sister  even  more 


406  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

than  my  mother.  It  certainly  would  be  the  best  thing  he 
could  do  for  her  to  give  her  a  pony.  But  she  will  die  of 
religion — young,  and  be  sainted  in  a  two-penny  tract,  and 
that  is  better  tlian  a  pony.  Her  hair  doesn't  curl — that's  the 
only  objection.  Some  one  has  remarked  that  all  the  good 
children  who  die  have  curly  hair." 

Poor  Charley !  Was  his  mind  more  healthy  then  ?  Was 
he  less  likely  to  come  to  an  early  death  ?  Was  his  want  of 
iaith  more  life-giving  than  what  he  considered  her  false  faith  ? 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  fear  it,"  I  said,  with  a  tremor  at  my 
heart  as  I  thought  of  my  dream. 

That  night  I  was  sleepless — but  about  Charley — not  about 
Mary.  What  could  I  do  ?— What  ought  I  to  do  ?  Might 
there  be  some  mistake  in  my  judgment  of  Clara  ?  I  searched, 
and  I  believe  searched  honestly,  for  any  possible  mode  of 
accounting  for  her  conduct  that  might  save  her  uprightness 
or  mitigate  the  severity  of  the  condemnation  I  had  passed  upon 
her.  I  could  find  none.  At  the  same  time,  what  I  was  really 
seeking  was  an  excuse  for  saying  nothing  to  Charley.  I  sus- 
pect now  that  had  I  searched  for  justification  or  excuse  for 
her  from  love  to  herself,  I  might  have  succeeded  in  construct- 
ing a  theory  capable  of  sheltering  her ;  but  as  it  was,  I  failed 
utterly ;  and  turning  at  last  from  the  effort,  I  brooded  instead 
upon  the  Quixotic  idea  already  adverted  to,  grown  the  more 
attractive  as  offering  a  good  excuse  for  leaving  Charley  for  a 
little. 


ULITH  MEETS  WITH  A  MISFORTUNE.  407 

CHAPTER  LII. 

LILITH   MEETS   WITH   A   MISFORTUNE. 

The  next  day,  leaving  a  note  to  inform  Charley  that  I  had 
run  home  for  a  week,  I  set  out  for  the  Moat,  carrying  with  me 
the  best  side-saddle  I  could  find  in  London. 

As  I  left  the  inn  at  Minstercombe  in  a  gig,  I  saw  Clara 
coming  out  of  a  shop.  I  could  not  stop  and  speak  to  her,  for, 
not  to  mention  the  opinion  I  had  of  her,  and  the  treachery  of 
which  I  accused  her,  was  I  not  at  that  very  moment  meditating 
how  best  to  let  her  lover  know  that  she  was  not  to  be  depended 
upon?  I  touched  the  horse  with  the  whip,  and  drove  rapidly 
past.  Involuntarily,  however,  I  glanced  behind,  and  saw  a 
white  face  staring  after  me.  Our  looks  encountered  thus,  I 
lifted  my  hat,  but  held  on  my  course. 

I  could  not  help  feeling  very  sorry  for  her.  The  more 
falsely  she  had  behaved,  she  was  the  more  to  be  pitied.  She 
looked  very  beautiful  with  that  white  face.  But  how  different 
was  her  beauty  from  that  of  my  Athanasia ! 

Having  tried  the  side-saddle  upon  Lilith,  and  found  all  it 
wanted  was  a  little  change  in  the  stuffing  about  the  withers,  I 
told  Styles  to  take  it  and  the  mare  to  Minstercombe  the  next 
morning,  and  have  it  properly  fitted. 

What  trifles  I  am  lingering  upon !  Lilith  is  gone  to  the 
worms — no,  that  I  do  not  believe :  amongst  the  things  most 
people  believe,  and  I  cannot,  that  is  one ;  but  at  all  events 
she  is  dead,  and  the  saddle  gone  to  worms  ;  and  yet,  for  rea- 
sons which  will  want  no  explanation  to  my  one  reader,  I  care 
to  linger  even  on  the  fringes  of  this  part  of  the  web  of  my 
story. 

I  wandered  about  the  fields  and  house,  building  and  demo- 
lishing many  an  airy  abode  until  Styles  came  back.  I  had 
told  him  to  get  the  job  done  at  once,  and  not  return  without 
the  saddle. 


408  WILFRID  CUMBERMKDE. 

"Can  I  trust  you,  Styles?"  I  said,  abruptly. 

"  I  hope  so,  sir.  If  I  may  make  so  bold,  I  don't  think  I 
tvas  altogether  to  blame  about  that  book " 

"  Of  course  not.  I  told  you  so.  Never  think  of  it  again. 
Can  you  keep  a  secret  ?" 

"  I  can  try,  «ir.  You've  been  a  good  master  to  me,  I'm 
sure,  sir." 

"  That  I  mean  to  be  still,  if  I  can.  Do  you  know  the  parish 
of  Spurdene  ?" 

"I  was  born  there,  sir." 

"  Ah !  that's  not  so  convenient.    Do  you  know  the  rectory  V 

"  Every  stone  of  it,  I  may  say,  sir." 

"  And  do  they  know  you  ?" 

"  Well,  it's  some  years  since  I  left — a  mere  boy,  sir." 

"  I  want  you  then — if  it  be  possible — you  can  tell  best — to 
set  out  with  Lilith  to-morrow  night. — I  hope  it  will  be  a  warm 
night.  You  must  groom  her  thoroughly,  put  on  the  side-sad- 
dle and  her  new  bridle,  and  lead  her — you're  not  to  ride  her, 
mind — I  don't  want  her  to  get  hot — lead  her  to  the  rectory  of 
Spurdene — and — now  here  is  the  point— if  it  be  possible,  take 
her  up  to  the  stable,  and  fasten  her  by  this  silver  chain  to  the 
ring  at  the  door  of  it — as  near  morning  as  you  safely  can  to 
avoid  discovery,  for  she  mustn't  stand  longer  at  this  season  of 
the  year  than  can  be  helped.  I  will  tell  you  all.  I  mean  her 
for  a  present  to  Miss  Osborne ;  but  I  do  not  want  any  one  to 
know  where  she  comes  from.  None  of  them,  I  believe,  have  ever 
seen  her.  I  will  write  something  on  a  card,  which  you  will  fas- 
ten to  one  of  the  pommels,  throwing  over  all  this  horse-cloth." 

I  gave  him  a  fine  bear-skin  I  had  bought  for  the  purpose. 
He  smiled,  and  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the  spirit  of  the 
thing,  promised  to  do  his  best. 

Lilith  looked  lovely  as  he  set  out  with  her,  late  the  follov/- 
ing  niglit.  When  he  returned  the  next  morning,  he  reported 
that  everything  had  succeeded  admirably.  He  had  carried 
out  my  instructions  to  the  letter;  and  my  white  Lilith  had  by 
that  time,  I  hoped,  been  caressed,  possibly  fed,  by  the  hands  of 
Mary  Osborne  herself. 


LILITH   MEETS   WITH   A    MISFORTUNE.  400 

I  may  just  mention  that  on  the  card  I  had  written — or 
rather  printed  the  words :  "  To  Mary  Osborne,  from  a  friend." 

In  a  day  or  two,  I  went  back  to  London,  but  said  nothing 
to  Charley  of  what  I  had  done — waiting  to  hear  from  him  first 
what  they  said  about  it. 

"  I  say,  Wilfrid  !"  he  cried,  as  he  came  into  my  room  with 
his  usual  hurried  step,  the  next  morning  but  one,  carrying  an 
open  letter  in  his  hand,  "  what's  this  you've  been  doing — you 
sly  old  fellow  ?     You  ought  to  have  been  a  prince,  by  Jove !" 

"  What  do  you  accuse  me  of?  I  must  know  that  first,  else  I 
might  confess  to  more  than  necessary.  One  must  be  on  one's 
guard  with  such  as  you." 

"  Read  that,"  he  said,  putting  the  letter  into  my  hand. 

It  was  from  his  sister.     One  passage  was  as  follows  : 

•*'  A  strange  thing  has  happened.  A  few  mornings  ago,  the 
loveliest  white  horse  was  found  tied  to  the  stable  door,  with  a 
side-saddle,  and  a  card  on  it  directed  to  me.  I  went  to  look 
at  the  creature.  It  was  like  the  witch-lady  in  Christabel, 
'beautiful  exceedingly.'  I  ran  to  my  father,  and  told  him. 
He  asked  me  who  had  sent  it,  but  I  knew  no  more  than  he 
did.  He  said  I  couldn't  keep  it  unless  we  found  out  who  had 
sent  it,  and  probably  not  then,  for  the  proceeding  was  as 
suspicious  as  absurd.  To-day  he  has  put  an  advertisement  in 
the  paper  to  the  effect  that  if  the  animal  is  not  claimed  before, 
it  will  be  sold  at  the  horse-fair  next  week,  and  the  money 
given  to  the  new  school  fund.  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  bear 
parting  with  it,  but  of  course  I  can't  accept  a  present  without 
knowing  where  it  comes  from.  Have  you  any  idea  who  sent 
it  ?  I  am  sure  papa  is  right  about  it,  as  indeed,  dear  Charley, 
he  always  is." 

I  laid  down  the  letter,  and,  full  of  mortification,  went 
walking  about  the  room. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Wilfrid  ?" 

"I  thought  it  better,  if  you  were  questioned,  that  you 
should  not  know.  But  it  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do — very.  I 
see  it  now.  Of  course  your  father  is  right.  It  doesn't  matter 
though. — I  will  go  down  and  buy  her." 


410  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  You  had  better  iiot  appear  in  it.  Go  to  the  Moat,  and 
send  Styles." 

"  Yes  -that  will  be  best.  Of  course  it  will.  When  is  the 
fair,  do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  will  find  out  for  you.  I  hope  some  rascal  mayn't  in  the 
mean  time  take  my  father  in,  and  persuade  him  to  give  her 
up.  Why  shouldn't  I  run  down  and  tell  him,  and  get  back 
poor  Lilith  without  making  you  pay  for  your  own  ?" 

"  Indeed  you  shan't.  The  mare  is  your  sister's,  and  I  shall 
lay  no  claim  to  her.     I  have  money  enough  to  redeem  her." 

Charley  got  me  information  about  the  fair,  and  the  day 
before  it  I  set  out  for  the  Moat. 

When  I  reached  Minstercombe,  having  more  time  on  my 
hands  than  I  knew  what  to  do  with,  I  resolved  to  walk  round 
by  Spurdene.  It  would  not  be  more  than  ten  or  twelve  miles, 
and  so  I  should  get  a  peep  of  the  rectory.  On  the  way  I  met 
a  few  farmer-looking  men  on  horseback,  and  just  before 
entering  the  village,  saw  at  a  little  distance  a  white  creature — 
very  like  my  Lilith — with  a  man  on  its  back,  coming  towards 
me. 

As  they  drew  nearer,  I  was  certain  of  the  mare,  and 
thinking  it  possible  the  rider  might  be  Mr.  Osborne,  withdrew 
into  a  thicket  on  the  roadside.  But  what  was  my  dismay  to 
discover  that  it  was  indeed  ray  Lilith,  but  ridden  by  Geoffrey 
Brotherton !  As  soon  as  he  was  past,  I  rushed  into  the  village, 
and  found  that  the  people  I  had  met  were  going  from  the  fair. 
Charley  had  been  misinformed.  I  was  too  late :  Brotherton 
had  bought  my  Lilith.  Half  distracted  with  rage  and  vexa- 
tion, I  walked  on  and  on,  never  halting  till  I  reached  the 
Moat.  Was  this  man  destined  to  swallow  up  everything  I 
cared  for?  Had  he  suspected  me  as  the  foolish  donor,  and 
bought  the  mare  to  spite  me?  A  thousand  times  rather 
would  I  have  had  her  dead.  Nothing  on  earth  would  have 
tempted  me  to  sell  my  Lilith  but  inability  to  feed  her,  and 
then  I  would  rather  have  shot  her.  I  felt  poorer  than  even 
when  my  precious  folio  was  taken  from  me,  for  the  lowest 
animal  life  is  a  greater  thing  than  a  rare  edition.     I  did  not 


LILITH   MEETS   WITH    A    ^IISFORTUNE.  411 

go  to  bed  at  all  that  night,  but  sat  by  my  fire  or  paced  about 
the  room  till  dawn,  when  I  set  out  for  Minstercombe,  and 
reached  it  in  time  for  the  morning  coach  to  London.  The 
whole  affair  was  a  folly,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  I  deserved 
to  suffer.  Before  I  left,  I  told  Styles,  and  begged  him  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  mare,  and  if  ever  he  learned  that  her  owner 
wanted  to  part  with  her,  to  come  off  at  once  and  let  me  know. 
He  was  greatly  concerned  at  my  ill-luck,  as  he  called  it,  and 
promised  to  watch  her  carefully.  He  knew  one  of  the 
grooms,  he  said,  a  little,  and  would  cultivate  his  acquain- 
tance. 

I  could  not  help  wishing  now  that  Charley  would  let  his 
sister  know  what  I  had  tried  to  do  for  her,  but  of  course  I 
would  not  say  so,  I  think  he  did  tell  her,  but  I  never  could 
be  quite  certain  whether  or  not  she  knew  it.  I  wonder  if  she 
ever  suspected  me.  I  think  not.  I  have  too  good  reason  to 
fear  that  she  attributed  to  another  the  would-be  gift :  I  believe 
that  from  Brotherton's  buying  her,  they  thought  he  had  sent 
her — a  present  certainly  far  more  befitting  his  means  than 
mine.  But  I  came  to  care  very  little  about  it,  for  my  cor- 
respondence with  her,  through  Charley,  went  on.  I  wondered 
sometimes  how  she  could  keep  from  letting  her  father  know  : 
that  he  did  not  know  I  was  certain,  for  he  would  have  put  a 
stop  to  it  at  once.  I  conjectured  that  she  had  told  her  mother, 
and  that  she,  fearing  to  widen  the  breach  between  her  hus- 
band and  Charley,  had  advised  her  not  to  mention  it  to  him ; 
while,  believing  it  would  do  both  Charley  and  me  good,  she 
did  not  counsel  her  to  give  up  the  correspondence.  It  must 
be  considered  also  that  it  was  long  before  I  said  a  word  imply- 
ing any  personal  interest.  Before  I  ventured  that,  I  had  some 
ground  for  thinking  that  my  ideas  had  begun  to  tell  upon 
hers,  for,  even  in  her  letters  to  Charley,  she  had  begun  to  drop 
the  common  religious  phrases,  while  all  she  said  seemed  to 
indicate  a  widening  and  deepening  and  simplifying  of  her 
faith.  I  do  not  for  a  moment  imply  that  she  had  consciously 
given  up  one  of  the  dogmas  of  the  party  to  which  she 
belonged,  but  there  was  the  perceptible  softening  of  growth  in 


412  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

her  utterances ;  and  after  tliat  was  plain  to  me,  I  began  to  let 
out  my  heart  to  her  a  little  more. 

About  this  time  also  I  began  to  read  once  more  the  history 
of  Jesus,  asking  myself  as  if  on  a  first  acquaintance  with  it, 
"  Could  it  be — might  it  not  be  that,  if  there  were  a  God,  he 
would  visit  his  children  after  some  fashion?  If  so,  is  this  a 
likely  fashion  ?  May  it  not  even  be  the  only  right  fashion  ?" 
In  the  story  I  found  at  least  a  perfection  surpassing  everything 
to  be  found  elsewhere ;  and  I  was  at  least  sure  that  whatever 
this  man  said  must  be  true.  If  one  could  only  be  as  sure  of 
the  record !  But  if  ever  a  dawn  was  to  rise  upon  me,  here 
certainly  the  sky  would  break  ;  here  I  thought  I  already  saw 
the  first  tinge  of  the  returning  life-blood  of  the  swooning 
world.  The  gathering  of  the  waters  of  conviction  at  length 
one  morning  broke  out  in  the  following  verses,  which  seemed 
more  than  half  given  to  me,  the  only  effort  required  being  to 
fit  them  rightly  together : — 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  0  my  God; 

Come  to  me  everywhere  ! 
Let  the  trees  mean  thee,  and  the  grassy  sod, 

And  the  water  and  the  air. 

For  thou  art  so  far  that  1  often  doubt, 

As  on  every  side  I  stare, 
Searching  within,  and  looking  without. 

If  thou  art  anywhere. 

How  did  men  find  thee  in  days  of  old? 

How  did  they  grow  so  sure  ? 
They  fought  in  thy  name,  they  were  glad  and  bold. 

They  suffered,  and  kept  themselves  pure. 

But  now  they  say — neither  above  the  sphere, 

Nor  down  in  the  heart  of  man, 
But  only  in  fancy,  ambition,  or  fear. 

The  thought  of  thee  began. 

If  only  that  perfect  tale  were  true 

Which  with  touch  of  sunny  gold. 
Of  the  ancient  many  makes  one  anew, 

And  simplicity  manifold. 


LILITH   MEETS   VflTH   A   MISFORTUNE.  413 

But  he  s.iid  that  thoy  who  did  his  word. 

The  truth  of  it  should  know  : 
I  will  try  to  do  it — if  he  bo  Lord, 

Perhaps  the  old  spring  will  ilowj 

Perhaps  the  old  spirit-wind  will  blow 

That  ho  promised  to  their  prayer) 
And  doing  thy  will,  I  yet  shall  know 

Thee,  Father,  everywhere ! 

These  lines  found  their  way  without  my  concurrence  into  a 
certain  religious  magazine,  and  I  was  considerably  astonished, 
and  yet  more  pleased  one  evening  when  Charley  handed  me, 
with  the  kind  regards  of  his  sister,  my  own  lines  copied  by 
herself.  I  speedily  let  her  know  they  were  mine,  explaining 
that  they  had  found  their  way  into  print  without  my  cogni- 
zance. She  testified  so  much  pleasure  at  the  fact,  and  the 
little  scraps  I  could  claim  as  my  peculiar  share  of  the  con- 
tents of  Charley's  envelopes,  grew  so  much  more  confiding, 
that  I  soon  ventured  to  write  more  warmly  than  hitherto.  A 
period  longer  than  usual  passed  before  she  wrote  again,  and 
when  she  did  she  took  no  express  notice  of  my  last  letter. 
Foolishly  or  not,  I  regarded  this  as  a  favorable  sign,  and  wrote 
several  letters,  in  which  I  allowed  the  true  state  of  my 
feelings  towards  her  to  appear.  At  length  I  wrote  a  long 
letter  in  which,  without  a  word  of  direct  love-making,  I 
thought  yet  to  reveal  that  I  loved  her  with  all  my  heart.  It 
was  chiefly  occupied  with  my  dream  on  that  memorable  night 
— of  course  without  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  waking,  or 
anything  that  followed.  I  ended  abruptly,  telling  her  that 
the  dream  often  recurred,  but  as  often  as  it  drew  to  its  lovely 
close,  the  lifted  veil  of  Athanasia  revealed  ever  and  only  the 
countenance  of  Mary  Osborne. 

The  answer  to  this  came  soon,  and  in  few  words. 

"  I  dare  not  take  to  myself  what  you  write.  That  would  be 
presumption  indeed,  not  to  say  willful  self-deception.  It  will 
be  honor  enough  for  me  if  in  any  way  I  serve  to  remind  you 
of  the  lady  of  your  dream.  Wilfrid,  if  you  love  me,  take 
care  of  my  Charley.     I  must  not  write  more. — M.  O." 


414  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

It  was  not  much,  but  enough  to  make  me  happy.  I  write 
it  from  memory — every  word  aa  it  lies  where  any  moment  I 
could  read  it — shut  in  a  golden  coffin  whose  lid  I  dare  not 
open. 


TOO   LATE.  416 


CHAPTER  LIIL 

TOO  LATE. 

I  MUST  now  go  back  a  little.  After  my  suspicions  had  been 
aroused  as  to  the  state  of  Charley's  feelings,  I  hesitated  for  a 
long  time  before  I  finally  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  him  the 
part  Clara  had  had  in  the  loss  of  my  sword.  But  while  I  was 
thus  restrained  by  dread  of  the  effect  the  disclosure  would 
have  upon  him  if  my  suspicions  were  correct,  those  very  sus- 
picions formed  the  strongest  reason  for  acquainting  him  with 
her  duplicity ;  and,  although  I  was  always  too  ready  to  put 
off  the  evil  day  so  long  as  doubt  supplied  excuse  for  procras- 
tination, I  could  not  have  let  so  much  time  slip  by  and 
nothing  said,  but  for  my  absorption  in  Mary. 

At  length,  however,  I  had  now  resolved,  and  one  evening, 
as  we  sat  together,  I  took  my  pipe  from  my  mouth,  and, 
shivering  bodily,  thus  began : 

"  Charley,"  I  said,  "  I  have  had  for  a  good  while  something 
on  my  mind,  which  I  cannot  keep  from  you  longer." 

He  looked  alarmed  instantly.     I  went  on. 

"  I  have  not  been  quite  open  with  you  about  that  affair  of 
the  sword." 

He  looked  yet  more  dismayed ;  but  I  must  go  on,  though  it 
tore  my  very  heart.  When  I  came  to  the  point  of  my  over- 
hearing Clara  talking  to  Brotherton,  he  started  up,  and  with- 
out waiting  to  know  the  subject  of  their  conversation,  came 
close  up  to  me,  and,  his  face  distorted  with  the  effort  to  keep 
himself  quiet,  said,  in  a  voice  hollow  and  still  and  far  off,  like 
what  one  fancies  of  the  voice  of  the  dead, 

"  Wilfrid,  you  said  Brotherton,  I  think  ?" 

"  I  did,  Charley." 

"  She  never  told  me  that !" 

"  How  could  she  when  she  was  betraying  your  friend  ?" 


41 G  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  No,  uo  !"  he  cried,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  command 
and  entreaty ;  "  don't  say  that.  There  is  some  explanation ; 
there  must  be. 

"  She  told  me  she  hated  him,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  she  hates  him.     What  was  she  saying  to  him  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  she  was  betraying  me,  your  friend,  who  had 
never  done  her  any  WToug,  to  the  man  she  had  told  me  she 
hated,  and  whom  I  had  heard  her  ridicule." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  betraying  you  ?" 

I  recounted  what  I  had  overheard.  He  listened  with  clenched 
teeth  and  trembling  white  lips ;  then  burst  into  a  forced  laugh. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!  Distrust  her  I  I  will  not.  There 
is  some  explanation !     There  must  be !" 

The  dew  of  agony  lay  thick  on  his  forehead.  I  was  greatly 
alarmed  at  what  I  had  done,  but  I  could  not  blame  myself. 

"  Do  be  calm,  Charley,"  I  entreated. 

"  I  am  as  calm  as  death,"  he  replied,  striding  up  and  down 
the  room  with  long  strides. 

He  stopped  and  came  up  to  me  again. 

"Wilfrid,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  damned  fool.  I  am  going 
now.  Don't  be  frightened — I  am  perfectly  calm.  I  will  come 
and  explain  it  all  to  you  to-morrow — no — the  next  day — or  the 
next  at  latest.  She  had  some  reason  for  hiding  it  from  me,  but 
I  shall  have  it  all  the  moment  I  ask  her.  She  is  not  what 
you  think  her.  I  don't  for  a  moment  blame  you — but — are 
you  sure  it  was — Clara's  voice  you  heard  ?"  he  added,  with 
forced  calmness  and  slow  utterance. 

"  A  man  is  not  likely  to  mistake  the  voice  of  a  woman  he 
ever  fancied  himself  in  love  with." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Wilfrid.  You'll  drive  me  mad. 
How  should  she  know  you  had  taken  the  sword  ?" 

"  She  was  always  urging  me  to  take  it.  There  lies  the  main 
sting  of  the  treachery.  But  I  nevei?  told  you  w^here  I  found 
the  sword." 

"  What  can  that  have  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  I  found  it  on  my  bed  that  same  morning  when  I  woke. 
It  could  not  have  been  there  when  I  lay  down." 


TOO    LATE.  417 

"Well?" 

"  Charley,  I  believe  she  laid  it  there." 

He  leaped  at  me  like  a  tiger.  Startled,  I  jumped  to  my  feet. 
He  laid  hold  of  me  by  the  throat,  and  griped  me  with  a 
quivering  grasp.  Kecovering  my  self-possession  I  stood  perfectly 
still,  making  no  effort  even  to  remove  his  hand,  although  it 
was  all  but  choking  me.  In  a  moment  or  two  he  relaxed  his 
hold,  burst  into  tears,  took  up  his  hat,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Charley !  Charley !  you  must  not  leave  me  so,"  I  cried, 
starting  forwards. 

"  To-morrow,  Wilfrid  ;  to-morrow,"  he  said,  and  was  gone. 

He  was  back  before  I  could  think  what  to  do  next.  Open- 
ing the  door  half-way,  he  said — as  if  a  griping  hand  had 
been  on  his  throat — "  I — I — I — don't  believe  it,  Wilfrid.  You 
only  said  you  believed  it.  I  don't.  Good-night.  I'm  all 
right  now.     Mind,  I  don't  believe  it." 

He  shut  the  door.  Why  did  I  not  follow  him  ?  But  if  I 
had  followed  him,  what  could  I  have  said  or  done  ?  In  every 
man's  life  come  awful  moments  when  he  must  meet  his  fate — 
dree  his  weird — alone.  Alone,  I  say,  if  he  have  no  God — 
for  man  or  woman  cannot  aid  him,  cannot  touch  him,  cannot 
come  near  him.  Charley  was  now  in  one  of  those  crises,  and 
I  could  not  help  him.  Death  is  counted  an  awful  thing :  it 
seems  to  me  that  life  is  an  infinitely  more  awful  thing. 

In  the  morning  I  received  the  following  letter : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Cumbermede, 

"  You  will  be  surprised  at  receiving  a  note  from  me — still 
more  at  its  contents.  I  am  most  anxious  to  see  you — so  much 
so  that  I  venture  to  ask  you  to  meet  me  where  we  can  have  a 
little  quiet  talk.  I  am  in  London,  and  for  a  day  or  two  suffi- 
ciently my  own  mistress  to  leave  the  choice  of  time  and  place 
with  you — only  let  it  be  when  and  where  we  shall  not  be  in- 
terrupted. I  presume  an  old  friendship  in  making  this  extra- 
ordinary request,  but  I  do  not  presume  in  my  confidence  that 
you  will  not  misunderstand  my  motives.  One  thing  only  I 
beg — that  you  will  not  inform  C.  O.  of  the  petition  I  make. 

"  Your  old  friend,  C.  C." 
27 


418  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

AVhat  was  I  to  do?  To  go,  of  course.  She  might  have 
something  to  reveal  which  would  cast  light  on  her  mysterious 
conduct.  I  cannot  say  I  expected  a  disclosure  capable  of  re- 
moving Charley's  misery,  but  I  did  vaguely  hope  to  learn 
something  that  might  alleviate  it.  Anyhow,  I  would  meet 
her,  for  I  dared  not  refuse  to  hear  her.  To  her  request  of 
concealing  it  from  Charley,  I  would  grant  nothing  beyond 
giving  it  quarter  until  I  bhould  see  whither  the  affair  tended. 
I  wrote  at  once — making  an  appointment  for  the  same  even- 
ing. But  was  it  from  a  suggestion  of  Satan,  from  an  evil 
impulse  of  human  spite,  or  by  the  decree  of  fate,  that  I  fixed 
on  that  part  of  the  Regent's  Park  in  which  I  had  seen  him 
and  the  lady  I  now  believe  to  have  been  Clara  walking 
together  in  the  dusk  ?  I  cannot  now  tell.  The  events  which 
followed  have  destroyed  all  certainty,  but  I  fear  it  was  a 
flutter  of  the  wings  of  revenge,  a  shove  at  the  spokes  of  the 
wheel  of  time  to  hasten  the  coming  of  its  circle. 

Anxious  to  keep  out  of  Charley's  way— for  the  secret  would 
make  me  wretched  in  his  presence — I  went  into  the  city,  and, 
after  an  early  dinner,  sauntered  out  to  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
to  spend  the  time  till  the  hour  of  meeting.  But  there,  strange 
to  say,  whether  from  insight  or  fancy,  in  every  animal  face  I 
saw  such  gleams  of  troubled  humanity,  that  at  last  I  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  and  betook  myself  to  Primrose  Hill. 

It  was  a  bright  afternoon,  wonderfully  clear,  with  a  crisj) 
frosty  feel  in  the  air.  But  the  sun  went  down,  and,  one  by  one, 
here  and  there,  above  and  below,  the  lights  came  out  and  the 
stars  appeared,  until  at  length  sky  and  earth  were  full  of 
flaming  spots,  and  it  was  time  to  seek  our  rendezvous. 

I  had  hardly  reached  it,  when  the  graceful  form  of  Clara 
glided  towards  me.  She  perceived  in  a  moment  that  I  did  not 
mean  to  shake  hands  with  her.  It  was  not  so  dark  but  that  I 
saw  her  bosom  heave,  and  a  flush  overspread  her  countenance. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,  Miss  Coningham,"  I  said.  "  I  am 
at  your  service." 

"  What  is  WTong,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?  You  never  used  to 
speak  to  me  in  such  a  tone." 


TOO   LATE.  419 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  if  you  are  not  more  able  than  I 
to  tell  what  it  is." 

"  Why  did  you  come  if  you  were  going  to  treat  me  so  ?" 

"  Because  you  requested  it." 

"  Have  I  offended  you  then  by  asking  you  to  meet  me  ?  1 
trusted  you.     I  thought  you  would  never  misjudge  me." 

"  I  should  be  but  too  happy  to  find  I  had  been  unjust  to 
you,  Miss  Coningham.  I  would  gladly  go  on  my  knees  to 
you  to  confess  that  fault,  if  I  could  only  be  satisfied  of  its 
existence.     Assure  me  of  it,  and  I  will  bless  you." 

"  How  strangely  you  talk  ?  Some  one  has  been  maligning 
me." 

"  No  one.  But  I  have  come  to  the  knowledge  of  what  only 
one  besides  yourself  could  have  told  me." 

"You  mean " 

"  Geoffrey  Brotherton." 

"  He!     He  has  been  telling  you " 

"  No — thank  heaven !  I  have  not  yet  sunk  to  the  slightest 
communication  with  him." 

She  turned  her  face  aside.  Veiled  as  it  was  by  the  gather- 
ing gloom,  she  yet  could  not  keep  it  towards  me.  But  after 
a  brief  pause  she  looked  at  me  and  said, 

"  You  know  more  than — I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  do  know  more  than  you  think  I  know.  I  will  tell  you 
under  what  circumstances  I  came  to  such  knowledge." 

She  stood  motionless. 

''  One  evening,"  I  went  on,  "  after  leaving  Mold  warp  Hall 
with  Charles  Osborne,  I  returned  to  the  library  to  fetch  a  book. 
As  I  entered  the  room  where  it  lay  I  heard  voices  in  the 
armory.  One  was  the  voice  of  Geoffrey  Brotherton — a  man 
you  told  me  you  hated.     The  other  was  yours." 

She  drew  herself  up  and  stood  stately  before  me. 

"  Is  that  your  accusation  ?"  she  said.  "  Is  a  woman  never 
to  speak  to  a  man  because  she  detests  him  ?" 

She  laughed,  I  thought  drearily. 

"Apparently  not — for  then  I  presume  you  would  not  have 
asked  me  to  meet  you." 


420  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  Why  should  you  think  I  hate  you  f" 

"  Beciiuse  you  have  been  treacherous  to  me." 

"  lu  talking  to  Geoffrey  Brothcrtou  ?  I  do  hate  him.  I 
liate  him  more  than  ever.  I  spoke  the  truth  when  I  told  you 
that." 

"  Then  you  do  not  hate  me  ?" 

"No." 

"  And  yet  you  delivered  me  over  to  my  enemy  bound  hand 
and  foot,  as  Delilah  did  Samson.  I  heard  what  you  said  to 
Brother  ton." 

She  seemed  to  waver,  but  stood — speechless,  as  if  waiting 
for  more. 

"  I  heard  you  tell  him  that  I  had  taken  that  sword — the 
sword  you  had  always  been  urging  me  to  take — the  sword  you 
unsheathed  and  laid  on  my  bed  that  I  might  be  tempted  to 
take  it — why  I  cannot  understand,  for  I  never  did  you  a 
wrong  to  my  poor  knowledge.  I  fell  into  your  snare,  and  you 
made  use  of  the  fact  you  had  achieved  to  ruin  my  character, 
and  drive  me  from  the  house  in  which  I  was  foolish  enough  to 
regard  myself  as  conferring  favors  rather  than  receiving  them. 
You  have  caused  me  to  be  branded  as  a  thief  tor  taking — at 
your  suggestion — that  which  was  and  still  is  my  own  !" 

"  Does  Charley  know  this  ?"  she  asked  in  a  strangely 
altered  voice. 

"  He  does.     He  learned  it  yesterday." 

"  O  my  God  !"  she  cried,  and  fell  kneeling  on  the  grass  at 
my  feet.  "  Wilfrid  !  Wilfrid  !  I  will  tell  you  all.  It  was  to 
tell  you  all  about  this  very  thing  that  I  asked  you  to  come. 
I  could  not  bear  it  longer.  Only  your  tone  made  me  angry. 
I  did  not  know  you  knew  so  much." 

The  very  fancy  of  such  submission  from  such  a  creature 
would  have  thrilled  me  with  a  wild  compassion  once ;  but 
now  I  thought  of  Charley,  and  felt  cold  to  her  sorrow  as  well 
as  her  loveliness.  When  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  mine,  however 
— it  was  not  so  dark  but  I  could  see  their  sadness — I  began  to 
hope  a  little  for  my  friend.  I  took  her  hand  and  raised  her. 
She  was  now  weeping  with  downbent  head. 


TOO   LATE.  421 

"  Clara,  you  shall  tell  me  all.  God  forbid  I  should  be  hard 
upon  you.  But  you  know  I  cannot  understand  it.  I  have  no 
clew  to  it.     How  could  you  serve  me  so  ?" 

"  It  is  very  hard  for  me — but  there  is  no  help  now  ;  I  must 
confess  disgrace  in  order  to  escape  infamy.  Listen  to  me, 
then — as  kindly  as  you  can,  AVilfrid.  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I 
have  no  right  to  use  any  old  familiarity  w^ith  you.  Had  my 
father's  plans  succeeded,  I  should  still  have  had  to  make  an 
apology  to  you,  but  under  what  different  circumstances !  I 
will  be  as  brief  as  I  can.  My  father  believed  you  the  rightful 
heir  to  Moldwarp  Hall.  Your  own  father  believed  it,  and 
made  my  father  believe  it — that  was  in  case  your  uncle  should 
leave  no  heir  behind  him.  But  your  uncle  was  a  strange 
man,  and  would  neither  lay  claim  to  the  property  himself,  nor 
allow  you  to  be  told  of  your  prospects.  He  did  all  he  could 
to  make  you  like  himself,  indifferent  to  worldly  things ;  and 
my  father  feared  you  would  pride  yourself  on  refusing  to 
claim  your  rights  except  some  counter-influence  were  used." 

"  But  why  should  your  father  have  taken  any  trouble  in  the 
matter  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,  you  know — one  in  his  profession  likes  to  see  justice 
done ;  and,  besides,  to  conduct  such  a  case  must  of  course  be 
of  professional  advantage  to  him.  You  must  not  think  him 
under  obligation  to  the  present  family  ;  my  grandfather  held 
the  position  he  still  occupies  before  they  came  into  the 
property. — I  am  too  unhappy  to  mind  what  I  say  now.  My 
father  was  pleased  when  you  and  I — indeed  I  fancy  he  had  a 
hand  in  our  first  meeting.  But  while  your  uncle  lived,  he 
had  to  be  cautious.  Chance,  however,  seemed  to  favor  his 
wishes.  We  met  more  than  once,  and  you  liked  me,  and  my 
father  thought  I  might  wake  you  up  to  care  about  your  rights, 
and-*-and — but — " 

"  I  see.     And  it  might  have  been,  Clara,  but  for — " 

"  Only,  you  see,  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  she  interrupted  with  a 
half-smile,  and  a  little  return  of  her  playful  manner — "/ 
didn't  wish  it." 

"  No.     You  preferred  the  man  who  had  the  property." 


422  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

It  was  a  speech  both  cruel  and  rude.  She  stepped  a  pace 
back,  and  looked  me  proudly  in  the  face. 

"  Prefer  that  man  to  you,  Wilfrid !  No.  I  could  never 
have  fallen  so  low  as  that.  But  I  confess  I  didn't  mind 
letting  papa  understand  that  Mr.  Brotherton  was  polite  to  me 
— -just  to  keep  him  from  urging  me  to — to — You  will  do  me 
the  justice  that  I  did  not  try  to  make  you — to  make  you — 
care  for  me,  Wilfrid  ?" 

"I  admit  it  heartily.  I  will  be  as  honest  as  you,  and 
confess  that  you  might  have  done  so — easily  enough  at  one 
time.  Indeed  I  am  only  half  honest  after  all ;  I  loved  you 
once — after  a  boyish  fashion." 

She  half-smiled  again. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  believing  me  now,"  she  said. 

"  Thoroughly,"  I  answered.  "  When  you  speak  the  truth, 
I  must  believe  you." 

"  I  was  afraid  to  let  papa  know  the  real  state  of  things,  I 
was  always  afraid  of  him,  though  I  love  him  dearly,  and  he 
is  very  good  to  me.  I  dared  not  disappoint  him  by  telling 
him  that  I  loved  Charley  Osborne.  That  time — you  remem- 
ber— when  we  met  in  Switzerland,  his  strange  ways  interested 
me  so  much  !     I  was  only  a  girl — but " 

"  I  understand  well  enough.  I  don't  wonder  at  any  woman 
falling  in  love  with  my  Charley." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  which  seemed  to  come 
from  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  "  You  were  always  generous. 
You  will  do  what  you  can  to  right  me  with  Charley — won't 
you  ?     He  is  very  strange  sometimes." 

"  I  will  indeed.  But,  Clara,  why  didn't  Charley  let  me 
know  that  you  and  he  loved  each  other  ?'' 

"  Ah  !  there  my  shame  comes  in  again !  I  wanted — for  my 
father's  sake,  not  for  my  own — I  need  not  tell  you  thgit — I 
wanted  to  keep  my  influence  over  you  a  little  while — that  is 
until  I  could  gain  my  father's  end.  If  I  should  succeed  in 
rousing  you  to  enter  an  action  for  the  recovery  of  your  rights, 
I  thought  my  father  might  then  be  reconciled  to  my  marrying 
Charley  instead " 


TOO    LATE.  423 

*'  Instead  of  me,  Clara.  Yes — I  see.  I  begin  to  under- 
stand the  whole  thing.  It's  not  so  bad  as  I  thought — not  by 
any  means." 

"  Oh,  Wilfrid  !  how  good  of  you  !  I  shall  love  you  next  to 
Charley  all  my  life." 

She  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  on 
the  point  of  raising  it  to  her  lips. 

"  But  I  can't  easily  get  over  the  disgrace  you  have  done  me, 
Clara.  Neither,  I  confess,  can  I  get  over  your  degrading 
yourself  to  a  private  interview  with  such  a  beast  as  I  know — 
and  can't  help  suspecting  you  knew  Brotherton  to  be." 

She  dropped  my  hand,  and  hid  her  face  in  both  her  own. 

"  I  did  know  what  he  was  ;  but  the  thought  of  Charley 
made  me  able  to  go  through  with  it." 

"  With  the  sacrifice  of  his  friend  to  his  enemy  ?" 

"  It  was  bad.  It  was  horridly  wicked.  I  hate  myself  for 
it.  But  you  know  I  thought  it  would  do  you  no  harm  in  the 
end." 

"  How  much  did  Charley  know  of  it  all  ?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  whatever.  How  could  I  trust  his  innocence? 
He's  the  simplest  creature  in  the  world,  Wilfrid." 

"  I  know  that  well  enough." 

"  I  could  not  confess  one  atom  of  it  to  him.  He  would 
have  blown  up  the  whole  scheme  at  once.  It  was  all  I  could 
do  to  keep  him  from  telling  you  of  our  engagement ;  and  that 
made  him  miserable." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  I  was  in  love  with  you  ?  You  knew  I 
was,  well  enough." 

"  I  dared  not  do  that,"  she  said,  with  a  sad  smile.  "  He 
would  have  vanished — would  have  killed  himself  to  make 
way  for  you." 

"I  see  you  understand  him,  Clara." 

"  That  will  give  me  some  feeble  merit  in  your  eyes — won't 
it,  Wilfrid  ?" 

"  Still  I  don't  see-  quite  why  you  betrayed  me  to  Brotherton. 
I  dare  say  I  should  if  I  had  time  to  think  it  over." 

"I  wanted  to  put  you  in  such  a  position  with  regard  to  the 


424  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Brothcrtoiis  that  you  could  have  no  scruples  iu  respect  of 
them  such  as  my  father  feared  from  what  he  called  the  over- 
relmement  of  your  ideas  of  honor.  The  treatment  you  must 
receive  would,  I  thought,  rouse  every  feeling  against  them. 
But  it  was  not  all  for  my  father's  sake,  Wilfrid.  It  was, 
however  mistaken,  yet  a  good  deal  for  the  sake  of  Charley's 
friend  that  I  thus  disgraced  myself.     Can  you  believe  me  ?" 

"  I  do.     But  nothing  can  wipe  out  the  disgrace  to  me." 

"  The  sword  was  your  own.  Of  course  I  never  for  a 
moment  doubted  that." 

"  But  they  believed  I  was  lying." 

"  I  can't  persuade  myself  it  signifies  greatly  what  such 
people  think  about  you.  I  except  Sir  Giles.  The  rest 
are " 

"  Yet  you  consented  to  visit  them." 

"  I  was  in  reality  Sir  Giles's  guest.  Not  one  of  the  others 
would  have  asked  me." 

"Not  GeoflTrey?" 

"  I  owe  him  nothing  but  undying  revenge  for  Charley." 

Her  eyes  flashed  through  the  darkness,  and  she  looked  as 
if  she  could  have  killed  him. 

"  But  you  were  plotting  against  Sir  Giles  all  the  time  you 
were  his  guest  ?" 

"  Not  unjustly  though.  The  property  was  not  his,  but 
yours — that  is,  as  we  then  believed.  As  far  as  I  knew,  the 
result  would  have  been  a  real  service  to  him,  in  delivering 
him  from  unjust  possession— a  thing  he  would  himself  have 
scorned.  It  was  all  very  wrong — very  low,  if  you  like — but 
somehow  it  then  seemed  simple  enough — a  lawful  stratagem 
for  the  right." 

"  Your  heart  was  so  full  of  Charley  !" 

"  Then  you  do  forgive  me.  Wilfrid  ?" 

"  With  all  my  soul.  I  hardly  feel  now  as  if  I  had  anything 
to  forgive." 

I  drew  her  towards  me  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 
She  threw  her  arms  around  me,  and  clung  to  me,  sobbing  like 
a  child. 


TOO    LATE.  425 

"  You  will  explain  it  all  to  Charley — won't  you  ?"  she  said, 
as  soon  as  she  could  speak,  withdrawing  herself  from  the  arm 
which  had  involuntarily  crept  around  her,  seeking  to  comfort 
her. 

"  I  will,"  I  said. 

We  were  startled  by  a  sound  in  the  clump  of  trees  behind  us. 
Then  over  their  tops  passed  a  wailful  gust  of  wind,  through 
which  we  thought  came  the  fall  of  receding  footsteps. 

"  I  hope  we  haven't  been  overheard,"  I  said.  "  I  shall  go 
at  once  and  tell  Charley  all  about  it.  I  will  just  see  you  home 
first." 

"  There's  no  occasion  for  that,  Wilfrid ;  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
deserve  it." 

"  You  deserve  a  thousand  thanks.  You  have  lifted  a  moun- 
tain off  me.  I  see  it  all  now.  When  your  father  found  it 
was  no  use " 

"  Then  I  saw  I  had  wronged  you,  and  I  couldn't  bear  myself 
till  I  had  confessed  all." 

"  Your  father  is  satisfied  then  that  the  register  would  not 
stand  in  evidence  ?" 

"  Yes.     He  told  me  all  about  it." 

"  He  has  never  said  a  word  to  me  on  the  matter ;  but  just 
dropped  me  in  the  dirt,  and  let  me  lie  there." 

"  You  must  forgive  him  too,  Wilfrid.  It  was  a  dreadful 
blow  to  him,  and  it  was  weeks  before  he  told  me.  We  couldn't 
think  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  You  see  he  had  been 
cherishing  the  scheme  ever  since  your  father's  death,  and  it 
was  a  great  humiliation  to  find  he  had  been  sitting  so  many 
years  on  an  addled  egg,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh  in  Avhich  her 
natural  merriment  once  more  peeped  out. 

I  walked  home  with  her,  and  we  parted  like  old  friends. 

On  my  way  to  the  Temple,  I  was  anxiously  occupied  as  to 
how  Charley  would  receive  the  explanation  I  had  to  give  him. 
That  Clara's  confession  would  be  a  relief  I  could  not  doubt  ; 
but  it  must  cause  him  great  pain  notwithstanding.  His  sense 
of  honor  was  so  keen,  and  his  ideal  of  womankind  so  lofty, 
that  I  could  not  but  dread  the  consequences  of  the  revelation. 


426  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

At  the  same  time  I  saw  how  it  might  benefit  him.  I  had 
l)ogun  to  see  that  it  is  more  divine  to  love  the  erring  than  to 
love  the  good,  and  to  understand  how  there  is  more  joy  over 
the  one  than  over  the  ninety  and  nine.  If  Charley,  under- 
standing that  he  is  no  divine  lover  who  loves  only  so  long  as 
he  is  able  to  flatter  himself  that  the  object  of  his  love  is  imma- 
culate, should  find  that  he  nmst  love  Clara  in  spite  of  her  faults 
and  wrong-doings,  he  might  thus  grow  to  be  less  despairful 
over  his  own  failures ;  he  might,  through  his  love  for  Clara, 
learn  to  hope  for  himself,  notwithstanding  the  awful  distance 
at  which  perfection  lay  removed. 

But  as  I  went  I  was  conscious  of  a  strange  oppression.  It 
was  not  properly  mental,  for  my  interview  with  Clara  had 
raised  my  spirits.  It  was  a  kind  of  physical  oppression  I  felt, 
as  if  the  air,  which  was  in  reality  clear  and  cold,  had  been 
damp  and  close  and  heavy. 

I  went  straight  to  Charley's  chambers.  The  moment  I 
opened  the  door,  I  knew  that  something  was  awfully  wrong. 
The  room  was  dark — but  he  would  often  sit  in  the  dark.  I 
called  him,  but  received  no  answer.  Trembling,  I  struck  a 
light,  for  I  feared  to  move  lest  I  should  touch  something 
dreadful.  But  when  I  had  succeeded  in  lighting  the  lamp,  I 
found  the  room  just  as  it  always  was.  His  hat  was  on  the 
table.  He  must  be  in  his  bed-room.  And  yet  I  did  not  feel 
as  if  anything  alive  was  near  me.  Why  was  everything  so 
frightfully  still?  I  opened  the  door  as  slowly  and  fearfully  as 
if  I  had  dreaded  arousing  a  sufferer  whose  life  depended  on 
his  repose.  There  he  lay  on  his  bed,  in  his  clothes — fast 
asleep,  as  I  thought,  for  he  often  slept  so,  and  at  any  hour  of 
tlie  day — the  natural  relief  of  his  much-perturbed  mind.  His 
eyes  were  closed,  and  his  face  was  very  white.  As  I  looked.  I 
heard  a  sound — a  drop — another !  There  was  a  slow  drip 
somewhere.  God  in  heaven  !  Could  it  be  ?  I  rushed  to  him, 
calling  him  aloud.  There  v/as  no  response.  It  was  too  true  ! 
He  was  dead.  The  long-snake-like  Indian  dagger  was  in  his 
heart,  and  the  blood  was  oozing  slowly  from  around  it. 

I  dare  not  linger  over  that  horrible  night,  or  the  horrible 


TOO   LATE.  427 

days  that  followed.  Such  days !  such  nights !  The  letters  to 
write ! — The  friends  to  tell  I — Clara ! — His  father ! — The  police! 
— The  inquest  f  *  *  * 

Mr.  Osborne  took  no  notice  of  my  letter,  but  came  up  at 
once.  Entering  where  I  sat  with  my  head  on  my  arms  on  the 
table,  the  first  announcement  I  had  of  his  presence  was  a 
hoarse,  deep,  broken  voice  ordering  me  out  of  the  room.  I 
obeyed  mechanically,  took  up  Charley's  hat  instead  of  my  own, 
and  walked  away  with  it.  But  the  neighbors  were  kind,  and 
although  I  did  not  attempt  to  approach  again  all  that  was  left 
of  my  friend,  I  watched  from  a  neighboring  window,  and  fol- 
lowing at  a  little  distance,  was  present  when  they  laid  his  form, 
late  at  night,  in  the  unconsecrated  ground  of  a  cemetery. 

I  may  just  mention  here  what  I  had  not  the  heart  to  dwell 
upon  in  the  course  of  my  narrative — that  since  the  talk  about 
suicide,  occasioned  by  the  remarks  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  he 
had  often  brought  up  the  subject — chiefly  however  in  a  half- 
humorous  tone,  and  from  what  may  be  called  an  sesthetic  point 
of  view,  as  to  the  best  mode  of  accomplishing  it.  For  some 
of  the  usual  modes  he  expressed  abhorrence,  as  being  so  ugly ; 
and  on  the  whole  considered — I  well  remember  the  phrase, 
for  he  used  it  more  than  once — that  a  dagger — and  on  one  of 
those  occasions  he  took  up  the  Indian  weapon  already  described, 
and  said — "  such  as  this  now," — was  "  the  most  gentleman-like 
usher  into  the  presence  of  the  Great  Nothing."  As  I  had, 
however,  often  heard  that  those  who  contemplated  suicide 
never  spoke  of  it,  and  as  his  manner  on  the  occasions  to  which 
I  refer  was  always  merry,  such  talk  awoke  little  uneasiness ; 
and  I  believe  that  he  never  had  at  the  moment  any  conscious 
attracting  to  the  subject  stronger  than  a  speculative  one.  At 
the  same  time,  however,  I  believe  that  the  speculative  attrac- 
tion itself  had  its  roots  in  the  misery  with  which  in  other  and 
prevailing  moods  he  was  so  familiar. 


428  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

ISOLATION. 

After  writing  to  Mr.  Osborne  to  acquaint  him  with  the 
terrible  event,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  go  to  Clara.  I  will 
not  attempt  to  describe  what  followed.  The  moment  she  saw 
me,  her  face  revealed,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  fact  legible  on  my 
own,  and  I  had  scarcely  opened  my  mouth  when  she  cried, 
"  He  is  dead!"  and  fell  fainting  on  the  floor.  Her  aunt  came, 
and  we  succeeded  in  recovering  her  a  little.  But  she  lay  still 
as  death  on  the  couch  where  we  had  laid  her,  and  the 
motion  of  her  eyes  hither  and  thither  as  if  following  the  move- 
ments of  some  one  about  the  room  was  the  only  sign  of  life  in 
her.  We  spoke  to  her,  but  evidently  she  heard  nothing ;  and 
at  last,  leaving  her  when  the  doctor  arrived,  I  waited  for  her 
aunt  in  another  room,  and  told  her  what  had  happened. 

Some  days  after,  Clara  sent  for  me,  and  I  had  to  tell  her  the 
whole  story.  Then,  with  agony  in  every  word  she  uttered,  she 
managed  to  inform  me  that  when  she  went  in  after  I  left  her 
at  the  door  that  night,  she  found  waiting  her  a  note  from 
Charley ;  and  this  she  now  gave  me  to  read.  It  contained  a 
request  to  meet  him  that  evening  at  the  very  place  which  I 
had  appointed.  It  was  their  customary  rendezvous  when  she 
was  in  town.  In  all  probability  he  was  there  when  we  were, 
and  heard  and  saw — heard  too  little  and  saw  too  much,  and 
concluded  that  both  Clara  and  I  were  false  to  him.  The  frig^ht- 
ful  perturbation  which  a  conviction  such  as  that  must  cause  in 
a  mind  like  his  could  be  nothing  short  of  madness.  For,  ever 
tortured  by  a  sense  of  his  own  impotence,  of  the  gulf  to  all 
appearance  eternally  fixed  between  his  actions  and  his  aspira- 
tions, and  unable  to  lay  hold  of  the  Essential,  the  Causing 
Goodness,  he  had  clung  with  the  despair  of  a  perishing  man  to 
the  dim  reflex  of  good  lie  saw  in  her  and  me.     If  his  faith  in 


ISOLATION.  429 

that  was  indeed  destroyed,  the  last  barrier  must  have  given 
way,  and  the  sea  of  madness,  ever  breaking  against  it,  must 
have  broken  in  and  overwhelmed  him.  But,  O  my  friend ! 
surely  long  ere  now  thou  knowest  that  we  were  not  false ;  surely 
the  hour  will  yet  dawn  when  I  shall  again  hold  thee  to  my 
heart;  yea,  surely,  even  if  still  thou  countest  me  guilty,  thou 
hast  already  found  for  me  endless  excuse  and  forgiveness. 

I  can  hardly  doubt,  however,  that  he  inherited  a  strain  of 
madness  from  his  father,  a  madness  which  that  father  had 
developed  by  forcing  upon  him  the  false  forms  of  a  true  reli- 
gion. 

It  is  not  then  strange  that  I  should  have  thought  and  specu- 
lated much  about  madness.  What  does  its  frequent  impulse 
to  suicide  indicate  ?  May  it  not  be  its  main  instinct  to  destroy 
itself  as  an  evil  thing  ?  May  not  the  impulse  arise  from  some 
unconscious  conviction  that  there  is  for  it  no  remedy  but  the 
shuffling  off  of  this  mortal  coil — nature  herself  dimly  urging 
through  the  fumes  of  the  madness  to  the  one  blow  which  lets 
in  the  light  and  air?  Doubtless,  if  in  the  mind  so  sadly 
unhinged,  the  sense  of  a  holy  Presence  could  be  developed — 
the  sense  of  a  love  that  loves  through  all  vagaries — of  a  hiding- 
place  from  forms  of  evil  the  most  fantastic — of  a  fatherly  care 
that  not  merely  holds  its  insane  child  in  its  arms,  but  enters 
into  the  chaos  of  his  imagination,  and  sees  every  wildest  horror 
with  which  it  swarms  ;  if,  I  say,  the  conviction  of  such  love 
dawned  on  the  disordered  mind,  the  man  would  live  in  spite  of 
his  imaginary  foes,  for  he  would  pray  against  them  as  sure  of 
being  heard  as  St.  Paul  when  he  prayed  concerning  the  thorn 
from  which  he  was  not  delivered,  but  against  which  he  was  sus- 
tained. And  who  can  tell  how  often  this  may  be  the  fact — 
how  often  the  lunatic  also  lives  by  faith  ?  Are  not  the  forms 
of  madness  most  frequently  those  of  love  and  religion  ?  Cer- 
tainly, if  there  be  a  God,  he  does  not  forget  his  frenzied  off- 
spring ;  certainly  he  is  more  tender  over  them  than  any  mother 
over  her  idiot  darling ;  certainly  he  sees  in  them  what  the  eye 
of  brother  or  sister  cannot  see.  But  some  of  them  at  least 
,  have  not  enough  of  such  support  to  be  able  to  go  on  living ; 


430  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

and  for  my  part  I  confess  I  rejoice  as  often  as  1  hear  that  one 
has  succeeded  in  breaking  his  prison  bars. 

When  the  crystal  shrine  has  grown  dim,  and  the  fair  forms 
of  nature  are  in  their  entrance  contorted  hideously ;  when  the 
sunlight  itself  is  as  blue  lightning,  and  the  wind  in  the  summer 
trees  is  as  "  a  terrible  sound  of  stones  cast  down,  or  a  rebound- 
ing echo  from  the  hollow  mountains ; "  when  the  body  is  no 
longer  a  mediator  between  the  soul  and  the  world,  but  the 
prison-house  of  a  lying  jailer  and  torturer — ^how  can  I  but  re- 
joice to  hear  that  the  tormented  captive  has  at  length  forced 
his  way  out  into  freedom  ? 

When  I  look  behind  me,  I  can  see  but  little  through  the 
surging  lurid  smoke  of  that  awful  time.  The  first  sense  of  re- 
lief came  when  I  saw  the  body  of  Charley  laid  in  the  holy 
earth.  For  the  earth  is  the  Lord's — and  none  the  less  holy 
that  the  voice  of  the  priest  may  have  left  it  without  his  conse- 
cration. Surely  if  ever  the  Lord  laughs  in  derision,  as  the 
Psalmist  says,  it  must  be  when  the  voice  of  a  man  would  in 
his  name  exclude  his  fellows  from  their  birthright.  O  Lord, 
gather  thou  the  outcasts  of  thy  Israel,  whom  the  priests  and 
the  rulers  of  thy  people  have  cast  out  to  perish ! 

I  remember  for  the  most  part  only  a  dull  agony,  inter- 
changing with  apathy.  For  days  and  days  I  could  not  rest, 
but  walked  hither  and  thither,  careless  whither.  When  at 
lengtli  I  would  lie  down  weary  and  fall  asleep,  suddenly  I 
Would  start  up,  hearing  the  voice  of  Charley  ciying  for  help, 
and  rush  in  the  middle  of  the  winter  night  into  the  wretched 
streets,  there  to  wander  till  daybreak.  But  I  was  not  utterly 
miserable.  In  my  most  wretched  dreams  I  never  dreamed 
of  Mary,  and  through  all  my  waking  distress  I  never  forgot 
her.  I  was  sure  in  my  very  soul  that  she  did  me  no  in- 
justice. I  had  laid  open  the  deepest  in  me  to  her  honest 
gaze,  and  she  had  read  it,  and  could  not  but  know  me. 
Neither  did  what  had  occurred  quench  my  growing  faith.  I 
had  never  been  able  to  hope  much  for  Charley  in  this  world  ; 
for  something  was  out  of  joint  with  him,  and  only  in  the  region 
of  the  unknown  was  I  able  to  look  for  the  setting  right  of  it. 


ISOLATION.  431 

Nor  had  many  weeks  passed  before  I  was  fully  aware  of  relief 
when  I  remembered  that  he  was  dead.  And  whenever  the 
thought  arose  that  God  might  have  given  him  a  fairer  chance 
in  this  world,  I  was  able  to  reflect  that  apparently  God  does 
not  care  for  this  world  save  as  a  part  of  the  whole ;  and  on 
that  whole  I  had  yet  to  discover  that  he  could  have  given  him 
a  laii'er  chance. 


432  WILFRID   CUMEERMEDE. 


CHAPTER    LV. 

ATTEMPTS   AND   COINCIDENCES. 

It  was  mouths  before  I  could  resume  my  work.  Not  until 
Charley's  absence  was  as  it  were  so  far  established  and  accepted 
that  hope  had  begun  to  assert  itself  against  memory ;  that  is, 
not  until  the  form  of  Charley  ceased  to  wander  with  despairful 
visage  behind  me  and  began  to  rise  amongst  the  silvery  mists 
before  me,  was  I  able  to  invent  once  more,  or  even  to  guide  the 
pen  with  certainty  over  the  paper.  The  moment,  however, 
that  I  took  the  pen  in  my  hand  another  necessity  seized  me. 

Although  Mary  had  hardly  been  out  of  my  thoughts,  I  had 
heard  no  word  of  her  since  her  brother's  death.  I  dared  not 
write  to  her  father  or  mother  after  the  way  the  former  had 
behaved  to  me,  and  I  shrunk  from  approaching  Mary  with  a 
word  that  might  suggest  a  desire  to  intrude  the  thoughts  of 
myself  upon  the  sacredness  of  her  grief.  Why  should  she 
think  of  me  ?  Sorrow  has  ever  something  of  a  divine  majesty, 
before  which  one  must  draw  nigh  with  bowed  head  and  bated 
breath : 

Here  I  and  sorrow  sit  j 
Here  is  my  throne:  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

But  the  moment  I  took  the  pen  in  my  hand  to  write,  an  almost 
agonizing  desire  to  speak  to  her  laid  hold  of  me.  I  dared  not 
yet  write  to  her,  but,  after  reflection,  resolved  to  send  her  some 
verses  which  should  make  her  think  of  both  Charley  and 
myself,  through  the  pages  of  a  magazine  which  I  knew  she 
read. 

0  look  not  on  the  heart  I  bring — 
It  is  too  low  and  poor; 

1  would  not  have  thee  love  a  thing 
Which  I  can  ill  endure. 

Nor  love  me  for  the  sake  of  what 

I  would  be  if  I  could ; 
O'er  peaks  as  o'er  the  marshy  flat. 

Still  soars  the  sky  of  good. 


ATTEMPTS   AND   COINCIDENCES.  433 

See,  love,  afar,  the  heavenly  man 

The  will  of  God  would  make  ; 
The  thing  I  must  be  when  I  can, 

Love  now,  for  faith's  dear  sake. 

But  when  I  had  finished  the  lines,  I  found  the  expression 
had  fallen  so  far  short  of  what  I  had  in  my  feeling,  that  I 
could  not  rest  satisfied  with  such  an  attempt  at  communica- 
tion. I  walked  up  and  down  the  room  thinking  of  the  awful 
theories  regarding  the  state  of  mind  at  death  in  which  Mary- 
had  been  trained.  As  to  the  mere  suicide,  love  ever  finds 
refuge  in  presumed  madness ;  but  all  of  her  school  believed 
that  at  the  moment  of  dissolution  the  fate  is  eternally  fixed 
either  for  bliss  or  woe,  determined  by  the  one  or  the  other  of 
two  vaguely  defined  attitudes  of  the  mental  being  towards  cer- 
tain propositions ;  concerning  which  attitudes  they  were  at  least 
right  in  asserting  that  no  man  could  of  himself  assume  the  safe 
one.  The  thought  became  unendurable  that  Mary  should  be- 
lieve that  Charley  was  damned — and  that  forever  and  ever.  I 
must  and  would  write  to  her,  come  of  it  what  might.  That 
my  Charley,  whose  suicide  came  of  misery  that  the  painful 
flutterings  of  his  half-born  wings  would  not  bear  him  aloft  into 
the  empyrean,  should  appear  to  my  Athanasia  lost  in  the  abyss 
of  irrecoverable  woe ;  that  she  should  think  of  God  as  sending 
forth  his  spirit  to  sustam  endless  wickedness  for  endless  tor- 
ture ; — it  was  too  frightful.  As  I  wrote,  the  fire  burned  and 
burned,  and  I  ended  only  from  despair  of  utterance.  Not  a 
word  can  I  now  recall  of  what  I  wrote  : — the  strength  of  my 
feelings  must  have  paralyzed  the  grasp  of  my  memory.  All  I 
can  recollect  is  that  I  closed  with  the  expression  of  a  passionate 
hope  that  the  God  who  had  made  me  and  my  Charley  to  love 
each  other,  would  somewhere,  some  day,  somehow,  when  each 
was  grown  stronger  and  purer,  give  us  once  more  to  each  other. 
In  that  hope  alone,  I  said,  was  it  possible  for  me  to  live.  By 
return  of  post,  I  received  the  following : — 

"  Sir — After  having  everlastingly  ruined  one  of  my  children, 
body  and  soul,  for  your  sophisms  will  hardly  alter  the  decrees 
of  divine  justice, — once  more  you  lay  your  snares — now  to 
28 


43-1  WILFllID   CUMBEKMEDE. 

drag  my  solo  remaining  child  into  the  same  abyss  of  perdition. 
Such  wickedness — wickedness  even  to  the  pitch  of  blasphemy 
against  the  Holy  Ghost,  I  have  never  in  the  course  of  a  large 
experience  of  impenitence  found  paralleled.  It  almost  drives 
me  to  the  belief  that  the  enemy  of  souls  is  still  occasionally  per- 
mitted to  take  up  his  personal  abode  in  the  heart  of  him  who 
willfully  turns  aside  from  revealed  truth.  I  forgive  you  for 
the  ruin  you  have  brought  upon  our  fondest  hopes,  and  the 
agony  with  which  you  have  torn  the  hearts  of  those  who  more 
than  life  loved  him  of  whom  you  falsely  called  yourself  the 
friend.  But  I  fear  you  have  already  gone  too  far  ever  to  feel 
your  need  of  that  forgiveness  which  alone  can  avail  you.  Yet 
I  say — Repent,  for  the  mercy  of  the  Lord  is  infinite.  Though 
my  boy  is  lost  to  me  forever,  I  should  yet  rejoice  to  see  the 
instrument  of  his  ruin  plucked  as  a  brand  from  the  burning. 

"  Your  obedient  well-wisher, 

"Charles  Osborne. 

"  P.  S. — I  retain  your  letter  for  the  sake  of  my  less  experi- 
enced brethren,  that  I  may  be  able  to  afford  an  instance  of 
how  far  the  unregenerate  mind  can  go  in  its  antagonism  to  the 
God  of  Revelation." 

I  breathed  a  deep  breath,  and  laid  the  letter  down,  mainly 
concerned  as  to  whether  Mary  had  had  the  chance  of  reading 
mine.  I  could-  believe  any  amount  of  tyranny  in  her  father — ■ 
even  to  perusing  and  withholding  her  letters ;  but  in  this  I 
may  do  him  injustice,  for  there  is  no  common  ground  known 
to  me  from  which  to  start  in  speculating  upon  his  probable 
actions.     I  wrote  in  answer  something  nearly  as  follows : — 

"  Sir — That  you  should  do  me  injustice  can  by  this  time  be 
no  matter  of  surprise  to  me.  Had  I  the  slightest  hope  of  con- 
vincing you  of  the  fact,  I  should  strain  every  mental  nerve  to 
that  end.  But  no  one  can  labor  without  hope,  and  as  in 
respect  of  your  justice  I  have  none,  I  will  be  silent.  May  the 
God  in  whom  I  trust  convince  you  of  the  cruelty  of  which  you 
have  been  guilty;  the  God  in  whom  you  profess  to  believe, 


ATTEMPTS   AND   COINCIDENCES.  435 

must  be  too  like  yourself  to  give  any  ground  of  such  hope 
from  him. 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  Wilfrid  Cumbermede." 

If  Mary  had  read  my  letter,  I  felt  assured  her  reading  had 
been  very  different  from  her  father's.  Anyhow  she  could  not 
judge  me  as  he  did,  for  she  knew  me  better.  She  knew  that 
for  Charley's  sake  I  had  tried  the  harder  to  believe  myself. 

But  the  reproaches  of  one  who  had  been  so  unjust  to  his 
own  son  could  not  weigh  very  heavily  on  me,  and  I  now 
resumed  my  work  with  a  tolerable  degree  of  calmness.  But  I 
wrote  badly.  I  should  have  done  better  to  go  down  to  the 
Moat,  and  be  silent.  If  my  reader  has  ever  seen  what  I  wrote 
at  that  time,  I  should  like  her  to  know  that  I  now  wish  it  all 
unwritten — not  for  any  utterance  contained  in  it,  but  simply 
for  its  general  inferiority. 

Certainly,  work  is  not  always  required  of  a  man.  There  is 
such  a  thing  as  a  sacred  idleness,  the  cultivation  of  which  is 
now  fearfully  neglected.  Abraham,  seated  in  his  tent-door  in 
the  heat  of  the  day,  would  be  to  the  philosophers  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  an  object  for  uplifted  hands  and  pointed  fingers. 
They  would  see  in  him  only  the  indolent  Arab,  whom  nothing 
but  the  foolish  fancy  that  he  saw  his  Maker  in  the  distance 
could  rouse  to  run. 

It  was  clearly  better  to  attempt  no  further  communication 
with  Mary  at  present ;  and  I  could  think  but  of  one  person 
from  whom,  without  giving  pain,  I  might  hope  for  some  infor- 
mation concerning  her.  *  *  >k 

Here  I  had  written  a  detailed  account  of  how  I  contrived  to 
meet  Miss  Pease,  but  it  is  not  of  consequence  enough  to  my 
story  to  be  allowed  to  remain.  Sufiice  it  to  mention  that  one 
morning,  at  length,  I  caught  sight  of  her  in  a  street  in  May- 
fair,  where  the  family  was  then  staying  for  the  season,  and 
overtaking,  addressed  her. 

She  started,  stared  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 


436  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"  I  didn't  know  you,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  How  much  older 
you  look  !     I  beg  your  pardon.     Have  you  been  ill  ? " 

She  spoke  hurriedly,  and  kept  looking  over  her  shoulder 
now  and  then  as  if  afraid  of  being  seen  talking  to  me. 

"  I  have  had  a  good  deal  to  make  me  older  since  we  met 
last.  Miss  Pease,"  I  said.  "  I  have  hardly  a  friend  left  in  the 
world  but  you — that  is,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  call  you  one." 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  she  answered,  but  hurriedly,  and 
with  one  of  those  uneasy  glances.  "  Only  you  must  allow, 
Mr.  Cumbermede,  that — that — that — " 

The  poor  lady  was  evidently  unprepared  to  meet  me  on  the 
old  footing,  and,  at  the  same  time,  equally  unwilling  to  hurt 
my  feelings. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  make  you  run  any  risk  for  my  sake," 
I  said.  "  Please  just  answer  me  one  question.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  be  misunderstood — to  be  despised  without  deserv- 
ing it?" 

She  smiled  sadly,  and  nodded  her  head  gently  two  or  three 
times. 

"  Then  have  pity  on  me  and  let  me  have  a  little  talk  with 
you."  ^ 

Again  she  glanced  apprehensively  over  her  shoulder. 

"  You  are  afraid  of  being  seen  with  me,  and  I  don't  wonder," 
I  said. 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  came  up  with  us,"  she  answered.  "  I  left 
him  at  breakfast.  He  will  be  going  across  the  park  to  his 
club  directly." 

"  Then  come  with  me  the  other  way — into  Hyde  Park,"  I 
said. 

With  evident  reluctance,  she  yielded  and  accompanied  me. 

As  soon  as  we  got  within  Stanhope  Gate,  I  spoke. 

"  A  certain  sad  event,  of  which  you  have  no  doubt  heard. 
Miss  Pease,  has  shut  me  out  from  all  communication  with  the 
family  of  my  friend,  Charley  Osborne.  I  am  very  anxious 
for  some  news  of  his  sister.  She  is  all  that  is  left  of  him  to 
me  now.     Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  her  ?" 

"  She  has  been  very  ill,"  she  replied. 


ATTEMPTS   AND    COINCIDENCES.  437 

"  I  hope  that  means  that  she  is  better,"  I  said. 

"  She  is  better,  and,  I  hear,  going  on  the  continent,  as  soon 
as  the  season  will  permit.  But,  Mr.  Cambermede,  you  must 
be  aware  that  I  am  under  considerable  restraint  in  talking  to 
you.  The  position  I  hold  in  Sir  Giles's  family,  although 
neither  a  comfortable  nor  a  dignified  one " 

"  I  understand  you  perfectly.  Miss  Pease,"  I  returned,  "  and 
fully  appreciate  the  sense  of  propriety  which  causes  your  em- 
barrassment. But  the  request  I  am  about  to  make  has  nothing 
to  do  with  them  or  their  atfairs  whatever.  I  only  want  your 
promise  to  let  me  know  if  you  hear  anything  of  Miss  Osborne." 

"  I  cannot  tell — what " 

"  What  use  I  may  be  going  to  make  of  the  information  you 
give  me.     In  a  word,  you  do  not  trust  me." 

"  I  neither  trust  nor  distrust  you,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  But  I 
am  afraid  of  being  drawn  into  a  correspondence  with  you." 

"  Then  I  will  ask  no  promise.  I  will  hope  in  your  gene- 
rosity. Here  is  my  address.  I  pray  you,  as  you  would  have 
helped  him  who  fell  among  thieves,  to  let  me  know  anything 
you  hear  about  Mary  Osborne." 

She  took  my  card,  and  turned  at  once,  saying : 

"  Mind,  I  make  no  promise." 

"  I  imagine  none,"  I  answered.  "  I  will  trust  in  your  kind- 
ness." 

And  so  we  parted. 

Unsatisfactory  as  the  interview  was,  it  yet  gave  me  a  little 
hope.  I  was  glad  to  hear  Mary  was  going  abroad,  for  it  must 
do  her  good.  For  me,  I  would  endure  and  labor  and  hope. 
I  gave  her  to  God,  as  Shakspeare  says  somewhere,  and  set 
myself  to  my  work.  When  her  mind  was  quieter  about 
Charley,  somehow  or  other  I  might  come  near  her  again.  I 
could  not  see  how. 

I  took  my  way  across  the  Green  Park. 

I  do  not  believe  we  notice  the  half  of  the  coincidences  that 
float  past  us  en  the  stream  of  events.  Things  which  would 
fill  us  with  astonishment,  and  probably  with  foreboding,  look 
us  in  the  face  and  pass  us  by,  and  we  know  nothing  of  them. 


438  WILFRID   OUMBERMEDE. 

As  I  walked  along  iu  the  direction  of  the  Mall,  I  became 
aware  of  a  tall  man  coming  towards  me,  stooping  as  if  with 
age,  while  the  length  of  his  stride  indicated  a  more  vigorous 
period.  He  passed  without  lifting  his  head,  but  in  the  partial 
view  of  the  wan  and  furrowed  countenance  I  could  not  fail  to 
recognize  Charley's  father.  Such  a  worn  unhappiness  was 
there  depicted,  that  the  indignation  which  still  lingered  in  my 
bosom  went  out  in  compassion.  If  his  sufferings  might  but 
teach  him  that  to  brand  the  truth  of  the  kingdom  with  the 
private  mark  of  opinion  must  result  in  persecution  and  cruelty  I 
He  mounted  the  slope  with  strides  at  once  eager  and  aimless, 
and  I  wondered  whether  any  of  the  sure  coming  compunctions 
had  yet  begun  to  overshadow  the  complacency  of  his  faith; 
whether  he  had  yet  begun  to  doubt  if  it  pleased  the  Son  of 
Man  that  a  youth  should  be  driven  from  the  gates  of  truth 
because  he  failed  to  recognize  her  image  in  the  face  of  the 
janitors. 

Aimless  also,  I  turned  into  the  Mall,  and  again  I  started  at 
the  sight  of  a  known  figure.  Was  it  possible  ? — could  it  be  my 
Lilith  betwixt  the  shafts  of  a  public  cabriolet  ?  Fortunately 
it  was  empty.  I  hailed  it,  and  jumped  up,  telling  the  driver 
to  take  me  to  my  chambers.  My  poor  Lilith !  She  was  work- 
ing like  one  who  had  never  been  loved !  So  far  as  I  knew, 
she  had  never  been  in  harness  before.  She  was  badly  groomed 
and  thin,  but  much  of  her  old  spirit  remained.  I  soon  entered 
into  negotiations  with  the  driver,  whose  property  she  was,  and 
made  her  my  own  once  more,  with  a  delight  I  could  ill-ex- 
press in  plain  prose — for  my  friends  were  indeed  few.  I  wish 
I  could  draw  a  picture  of  the  lovely  creature,  when  at  length, 
having  concluded  my  bargain,  I  approached  her,  and  called 
her  by  her  name !  She  turned  her  head  sideways  towards  me 
with  a  low  whinny  of  pleasure,  and  when  I  walked  a  little 
away,  walked  wearily  after  me.  I  took  her  myself  to  livery- 
stables  near  me,  and  wrote  for  Styles.  His  astonishment  when 
he  saw  her  was  amusing. 

"  Good  Lord,  Miss  Lilith !"  was  all  he  could  say  for  some 
moments. 


ATTEMPTS   AND   COINCIDENCES.  439 

In  a  few  days  she  had  begun  to  look  like  herself,  and  I  sent 
her  home  with  Styles,  I  should  hardly  like  to  say  how  much 
the  recovery  of  her  did  to  restore  my  spirits ;  I  could  not  help 
regarding  it  as  a  good  omen. 

And  now,  the  first  bitterness  of  my  misery  having  died  a 
natural  death,  I  sought  again  some  of  the  friends  I  had  made 
through  Charley,  and  experienced  from  them  great  kindness. 
I  began  also  to  go  into  society  a  little,  for  I  had  found  that 
invention  is  ever  ready  to  lose  the  forms  of  life  if  it  be  not 
kept  under  the  ordinary  pressure  of  its  atmosphere.  As  it  is, 
I  doubt  much  if  any  of  my  books  are  more  than  partially 
true  to  those  forms,  for  I  have  ever  heeded  them  too  little ; 
but  I  believe  I  have  been  true  to  the  heart  of  man.  At  the 
same  time,  I  have  ever  regarded  that  heart  more  as  the  foun- 
tain of  aspiration  than  the  grave  of  fruition.  The  discom- 
fiture of  enemies  and  a  happy  marriage  never  seemed  to  me 
ends  of  sufficient  value  to  close  a  history  withal — I  mean  a 
fictitious  history,  wherein  one  may  set  forth  joys  and  sorrows 
which  in  a  real  history  must  walk  shadowed  under  the  veil  of 
modesty ;  for  the  soul  still  less  than  the  body  will  consent  to 
be  revealed  to  all  eyes.  Hence,  although  most  of  my  books 
have  seemed  true  to  some,  they  have  all  seemed  visionary  to 
most. 

A  year  passed  away,  during  which  I  never  left  Lon- 
don. I  heard  from  Miss  Pease — that  Miss  Osborne,  though 
much  better,  was  not  going  to  return  until  after  another 
winter.  I  wrote  and  thanked  her,  and  heard  no  more.  It 
may  seem  I  accepted  such  ignorance  with  strange  indifference ; 
but  even  to  the  reader,  for  whom  alone  I  am  writing,  I  cannot, 
as  things  are,  attempt  to  lay  open  all  my  heart.  I  have  not 
written,  and  cannot  write,  how  I  thought,  projected,  brooded, 
and  dreamed — all  about  her;  how  I  hoped  when  I  wrote  that 
she  might  read ;  how  I  questioned  what  I  had  written,  to  find 
whether  it  would  look  to  her  what  I  had  intended  it  to  ap- 
pear. . 


440  WILFEID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

THE   LAST   VISION. 

I  HAD  engaged  to  accompany  one  of  Charley's  barrister 
friends,  in  whose  society  I  had  found  considerable  satisfaction, 
to  his  father's  house,  to  spend  the  evening  with  some  friends 
of  the  family.  The  gathering  was  chiefly  for  talk,  and  was  a 
kind  of  thing  I  disliked,  finding  its  aimlessness  and  flicker 
depressing.  Indeed,  partly  from  the  peculiar  circumstances 
of  my  childhood,  partly  from  what  I  had  suffered,  I  always 
found  my  spirits  highest  when  alone.  Still,  the  study  of  hu- 
manity apart,  I  felt  that  I  ought  not  to  shut  myself  out  from 
my  kind,  but  endure  some  little  irksomeness,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  keeping  alive  the  surface  friendliness  which  has  its 
value  in  the  nourishment  of  the  deeper  affections.  On  this 
particular  occasion,  however,  I  yielded  the  more  willingly  that, 
in  the  revival  of  various  memories  of  Charley,  it  had  occurred 
to  me  that  I  once  heard  him  say  that  his  sister  had  a  regard 
for  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  family. 

There  were  not  many  people  in  the  drawing-room  when  we 
arrived,  and  my  friend's  mother  alone  was  there  to  entertain 
them.  With  her  I  was  chatting  when  one  of  her  daughters 
entered,  accompanied  by  a  lady  in  mourning.  For  one  mo- 
ment I  felt  as  if  on  the  borders  of  insanity.  My  brain  seemed 
to  surge  like  the  waves  of  a  wind-tormented  tide,  so  that  I 
dared  not  make  a  single  step  forward  lest  my  limbs  should 
disobey  me.  It  was,  indeed,  Mary  Osborne;  but  oh,  how 
changed!  The  rather  full  face  had  grown  delicate  and  thin, 
and  the  fine  pure  complexion  if  possible  finer  and  purer,  but 
certainly  more  ethereal  and  evanescent.  It  was  as  if  suffering 
had  removed  some  substance  unapt,*  and  rendered  her  body 

*  Spenser's  "  Hjmne  in  Honor  of  Beautie." 


I  WILL  COME  TO  YOU  BY  AND  BY,"  I  SAID. 


THE   LAST    VISION.  441 

a  better-fitting  garment  for  her  soul.  Her  face,  which  had 
before  required  the  softening  influence  of  sleep  and  dreams  to 
give  it  the  plasticity  necessary  for  complete  expression,  was 
now  full  of  a  repressed  expression,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
phrase — a  latent  something  ever  on  the  tremble,  ever  on  the 
point  of  breaking  forth.  It  was  as  if  the  nerves  had  grown 
finer,  more  tremulous,  or  rather,  more  vibrative.  Touched  to 
finer  issues  they  could  never  have  been,  but  suffering  had 
given  them  a  more  responsive  thrill.  In  a  word,  she  Avas  the 
Athanasia  of  my  dream,  not  the  Mary  Osborne  of  the  Mold- 
warp  library. 

Conquering  myself  at  last,  and  seeing  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity, I  approached  her.  I  think  the  fear  lest  her  father 
should  enter  gave  me  the  final  impulse ;  otherwise  I  could  have 
been  contented  to  gaze  on  her  for  hours  in  motionless  silence. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you,  Mary  ?"  I  said. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  her  whole  face  towards  mine,  with- 
out a  smile,  without  a  word.  Her  features  remained  perfectly 
still,  but,  like  the  outbreak  of  a  fountain,  the  tears  rushed  into 
her  eyes  and  overflowed  in  silent  weeping.  Not  a  sob,  not  a 
convulsive  movement  accompanied  their  flow. 

"  Is  your  father  here?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  thought  you  were  abroad  somewhere — I  did  not  know 
where." 

Again  she  shook  her  head.  She  dared  not  speak,  knowing 
that  if  she  made  the  attempt  she  must  break  down. 

"  I  will  go  away  till  you  can  bear  the  sight  of  me,"  I  said. 

She  half-stretched  out  a  thin  white  hand,  but  whether  to 
detain  me  or  bid  me  farewell,  I  do  not  know,  for  it  dropped 
again  on  her  knee. 

"  I  will  come  to  you  by  and  by,"  I  said,  and  moved  away. 

The  rooms  rapidly  filled,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  could  not 
see  the  corner  where  I  had  left  her.  I  endured  everything 
for  a  while,  and  then  made  my  way  back  to  it ;  but  she  was 
gone,  and  I  could  find  her  nowhere.  A  lady  began  to  sing. 
When  the  applause  which  followed  her  performance  was  over, 


442  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

my  friend,  who  happened  to  be  near  me,  turned  abruptly  and 
said, 

"  Now,  Cumbermede,  you  sing." 

The  truth  was,  that  since  I  had  loved  Mary  Osborne,  I  had 
attempted  to  cultivate  a  certain  small  gift  of  song  which  I 
thought  I  possessed.  I  dared  not  touch  any  existent  music, 
for  I  was  certain  I  should  break  down ;  but  having  a  faculty 
— somewhat  thin,  I  fear — for  writing  songs,  and  finding  that  a 
shadowy  air  always  accompanied  the  birth  of  the  words,  I  had 
presumed  to  study  music  a  little,  in  the  hope  of  becoming 
able  to  fix  the  melody — the  twin  sister  of  the  song.  I  had 
made  some  progress,  and  had  grown  able  to  write  down  a 
simple  thought.  There  was  little  presumption,  then,  in 
venturing  my  voice,  limited  as  was  its  scope,  upon  a  trifle  of 
my  own.  Tempted  by  the  opportunity  of  realizing  hopes  con- 
sciously wild,  I  obeyed  my  friend,  and,  sitting  down  to  tht 
instrument  in  some  trepidation,  sang  the  following  verses : — 

I  dreamed  that  I  woke  from    a    dream, 

And  the  house  was  full  of  light ; 
At  the  window  two  angel  Sorrows 

Held  back  the  curtains  of  night. 

The  door  was  wide,  and  the  house 

Was  full  of  the  morning  wind  j 
At  the  door  two  armed  warders 

Stood  silent,  with  faces  blind. 

I  ran  to  the  open  door. 

For  the  wind  of  the  world  was  sweet ; 

The  warders  with  crossing  weapons 
Turned  back  my  issuing  feet. 

I  ran  to  the  shining  windows — ■ 

There  the  winged  Sorrows  stood; 
Silent  they  held  the  curtains, 

And  the  light  fell  through  in  a  flood. 

I  clomb  to  the  highest  window  — 

Ah  !  there,  with  shadowed  brow. 
Stood  one  lonely  radiant  Sorrow, 

And  that,  my  love,  was  thou. 


THE   LAST   VISION.  443 

I  could  not  have  sung  this  in  public  but  that  no  one  would 
suspect  it  was  my  own,  or  was  in  the  least  likely  to  understand 
a  word  of  it — except  her  for  whose  ears  and  heart  it  was 
intended. 

As  soon  as  I  had  finished,  I  rose  and  once  more  went 
searching  for  Mary.  But  as  I  looked,  sadly  fearing  she  was 
gone,  I  heard  her  voice  close  behind  me. 

"Are  those  verses  your  own,  Mr,  Cumbermede?"  she  asked, 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

I  turned  trembling.     Her  lovely  face  was  looking  up  at  me. 

"Yes,"  I  answered — "as  much  my  own  as  that  I  believe 
they  are  not  to  be  found  anywhere.  But  they  were  given  to 
me  rather  than  made  by  me." 

"Would  you  let  me  have  them?  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
understand  them." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  them  myself.  They  are 
for  the  heart  rather  than  the  mind.  Of  course  you  shall  have 
them.  They  were  written  for  you.  All  I  have,  all  I  am,  is 
yours." 

Her  face  flushed  and  grew  pale  again  instantly. 

"  You  must  not  talk  so,"  she  said.     "  Remember." 

"  I  can  never  forget.     I  do  not  know  why  you  say  remeni- 

"  On  second  thoughts,  I  must  not  have  the  verses*  I  beg 
your  pardon." 

"  Mary,  you  bewilder  me.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  you  to 
explain,  except  that  you  speak  as  if  I  must  understand. 
What  have  they  been  telling  you  about  me  ?" 

"  Nothing — at  least  nothing  that " 

She  paused. 

"  I  try  to  live  innocently,  and  were  it  only  for  your  sake, 
shall  never  stop  searching  for  the  thread  of  life  in  its  raveled 
skein." 

"  Do  not  say  "for  my  sake,  Mr.  Cumbermede.  That  means 
nothing.     Say  for  your  own  sake,  if  not  for  God's." 

"  If  you  are  going  to  turn  away  from  me,  I  don't  mind  how 
soon  I  follow  Charley." 


444  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

All  tins  was  said  in  a  half  whisper,  I  bendiug  towards  her 
where  she  sat,  a  little  sheltered  by  one  of  a  pair  of  folding- 
doors.  My  heart  was  like  to  break — or  rather  it  seemed  to 
have  vanished  out  of  me  altogether,  lost  in  a  gulf  of  empti- 
ness. Was  this  all?  Was  this  the  end  of  my  dreaming?  To 
be  thus  pushed  aside  by  the  angel  of  my  resurrection  ? 

"  Hush  !  hu:?h  !"  she  said  kindly.  "  You  must  have  many 
friends.     But " 

"  But  you  will  be  my  friend  no  more  ?  Is  that  it,  Mary  ? 
Oh,  if  you  knew  all !  And  you  are  never,  never  to  know  it !" 

Her  still  face  was  once  more  streaming  with  tears.  I 
choked  mine  back,  terrified  at  the  thought  of  being  observed  ; 
and  without  even  offering  my  hand,  left  her  and  made  my  way 
through  the  crowd  to  the  stair.  On  the  landing  I  met  Geof- 
frey Brotherton.  We  stared  each  other  in  the  face,  and 
passed. 

I  did  not  sleep  much  that  night,  and  when  I  did  sleep, 
woke  from  one  wretched  dream  after  another,  now  crying 
aloud,  and  now  weeping.  What  could  I  have  done  ?  Or, 
rather,  what  could  any  one  have  told  her  I  had  done,  to  make 
her  behave  thus  to  me  ?  She  did  not  look  angry — nor  even 
displeased — only  sorrowful,  very  sorrowful ;  and  she  seemed  to 
take  it  for  granted  I  knew  what  it  meant.  When  at  length  I 
finally  woke,  after  an  hour  of  less  troubled  sleep,  I  found  some 
difficulty  in  convincing  myself  that  the  real  occurrence  of  the 
night  before  had  not  been  one  of  the  many  troubled  dreams 
that  had  scared  my  repose.  Even  after  the  dreams  had  all 
vanished,  and  the  facts  remained,  they  still  appeared  more  like 
a  dim  dream  of  the  dead — the  vision  of  Mary  was  so  wan  and 
hopeless,  memory  alone  looking  out  from  her  worn  counte- 
nance. There  had  been  no  warmth  in  her  greeting,  no  resent- 
ment in  her  aspect ;  we  met  as  if  we  had  parted  but  an  hour 
before,  only  that  an  open  grave  was  between  us,  across  which 
we  talked  in  the  voices  of  dreamers.  She  had'sought  to  raise 
no  barrier  between  us,  just  because  we  could  not  meet,  save  as 
one  of  the  dead  and  one  of  the  living.  What  could  it  mean  ? 
But  with  the  growing  day  awoke  a  little  courage.     I  would  at 


THE   LAST    VISION.  445 

least  try  to  find  out  what  it  meant.  Surely  all  my  dreams 
were  not  to  vanish  like  the  mist  of  the  morning!  To  lose  my 
dreams  would  be  far  worse  than  to  lose  the  so-called  realities 
of  life.  What  were  these  to  me  ?  What  value  lay  in  such 
reality  ?  Even  God  was  as  yet  so  dim  and  far  off  as  to  seem 
rather  in  the  region  of  dreams — of  those  true  dreams,  I 
hoped,  that  shadow  forth  the  real — than  in  the  actual  visible 
present.  "Still,"  I  said  to  myself,  "she  had  not  cast  me  off; 
she  did  not  refuse  to  know  me  ;  she  did  ask  for  my  song,  and 
I  will  send  it." 

I  wrote  it  out,  adding  a  stanza  to  the  verses  : — 

I    bowed  my  head   before    her. 
And  stood  trembling  in  the  light; 

She  dropped  the  heavy  curtain, 
And  the  house  was  full  of  night. 

I  then  sought  my  friend's  chambers. 

"  I  was  not  aware  you  knew  the  Osbornes,"  I  said.  "  I 
wonder  you  never  told  me,  seeing  Charley  and  you  were  such 
friends." 

"  I  never  saw  one  of  them  till  last  night.  My  sister  and 
she  knew  each  other  some  time  ago,  and  have  met  again  of 
late.  What  a  lovely  creature  she  is !  But  what  became  of 
you  last  night  ?     You  must  have  left  before  any  one  else." 

"  I  didn't  feel  well." 

"  You  don't  look  the  thing." 

"  I  confess  meeting  Miss  Osborne  rather  upset  me." 

"  It  had  the  same  effect  on  her.  She  was  quite  ill,  my  sister 
said  this  morning.  No  wonder !  Poor  Charley !  I  always 
had  a  painful  feeling  that  he  would  come  to  grief  somehow." 

"  Let's  hope  he's  come  to  something  else  by  this  time,  Mars- 
ton,"  I  said. 

"  Amen,"  he  returned. 

"  Is  her  father  or  mother  with  her  ?" 

"No.  They  are  to  fetch  her  away — next  week,  I  think  it  is." 

I  had  now  no  fear  of  my  communication  falling  into  other 
hands,  and  therefore  sent  the  song  by  post,  with  a  note,  in 
which  I  begged  her  to  let  me  know  if  I  had  done  anything  to 


44G  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

offend  her.  Next  morning  I  received  tlie  following  reply : — 
"No,  Wilfrid — for  Charley's  sake,  I  must  call  you  by  your 
name — you  have  done  nothing  to  offend  me.  Thank  you  for 
the  .song.  I  did  not  want  you  to  send  it,  but  I  \vill  keep  it. 
You  must  not  write  to  me  again.  Do  not  forget  what  we 
used  to  write  about.     God's  ways  are  not  ours.     Your  friend, 

"  Mary  Osborne." 

I  rose  and  went  out,  not  knowing  whither.  Half-stunned,  I 
roamed  the  streets.  I  ate  nothing  that  day,  and  when  towards 
night  I  found  myself  near  my  chambers,  I  walked  in  as  I  had 
come  out,  having  no  intent,  no  future.  I  felt  very  sick,  and 
threw  myself  on  my  bed.  There  I  passed  the  night,  half  in 
sleep,  half  in  a  helpless  prostration.  When  I  look  back,  it 
seems  as  if  some  spiritual  narcotic  must  have  been  given  me, 
else  how  should  the  terrible  time  have  passed  and  left  me 
alive?  When  I  came  to  myself,  I  found  I  was  ill,  and  I 
longed  to  hide  my  head  in  the  nest  of  my  childhood.  I  had 
always  looked  on  the  Moat  as  my  refuge  at  the  last ;  now  it 
seemed  the  only  desirable  thing — a  lonely  nook,  in  which  to 
lie  down  and  end  the  dream  there  begun — either,  as  it  now 
seemed,  in  an  eternal  sleep,  or  the  in  burst  of  a  dreary  light. 
After  the  last  refuge  it  could  afford  me  it  must  pass  from  my 
hold ;  but  I  was  yet  able  to  determine  whither.  I  rose  and 
went  to  Marston. 

"  Marston,"  I  said,  "  I  want  to  make  my  will." 

"  All  right !"  he  returned  ;  "  but  you  look  as  if  you  meant 
to  register  it  as  well.  You've  got  a  feverish  cold :  I  see  it  in 
your  eyes.  Come  along.  I'll  go  home  with  you,  and  fetch  a 
friend  of  mine  who  will  give  you  something  to  do  you  good." 

"  I  can't  rest  till  I  have  made  my  will,"  I  persisted. 

"  Well,  there's  no  harm  in  that,"  he  rejoined.  "  It  won't 
take  long,  I  dare  say." 

"  It  needn't,  anyhow.  I  only  want  to  leave  the  small  real 
property  I  have  to  INIiss  Osborne,  and  the  still  smaller  personal 
property  to  yourself." 

He  laughed. 

"  All  right,  old  boy !     I  haven't  the  slightest  objection  to 


THE    LAST    VISION.  447 

your  willing  your  traps  to  me,  but  every  objection  in  the  world 
to  your  leaving  them.  To  be  sure,  every  man,  with  anything 
to  leave,  ought  to  make  his  will  betimes ; — so  fire  away." 

In  a  little  while  the  draught  was  finished. 

"  I  shall  have  it  ready  for  your  signature  by  to-morrow," 
he  said. 

I  insisted  it  should  be  done  at  once.  I  was  going  home,  I 
said.  He  yielded.  The  will  was  engrossed,  signed,  and  wit- 
nessed that  same  morning ;  and  in  the  afternoon  I  set  out,  the 
first  part  of  the  journey  by  rail,  for  the  Moat. 


448  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER    LVII. 

ANOTHER    DREAM. 

The  excitement  of  having  something  to  do  had  helped  me 
over  the  morning,  and  the  pleasure  of  thinking  of  what  I  had 
done  helped  me  through  the  journey  ;  but  before  I  reached 
home  I  was  utterly  exhausted.  Then  I  had  to  drive  round 
by  the  farm,  and  knock  up  Mrs.  Herbert  and  Styles. 

I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  my  own  room,  and  ordered 
a  fire  in  my  grandmother's,  where  they  soon  got  me  into  bed. 
All  I  remember  of  that  night  is  the  following  dream. 

I  found  myself  at  the  entrance  of  the  ice  cave.  A  burning 
sun  beat  on  my  head,  and  at  my  feet  flowed  the  brook  which 
gathered  its  life  from  the  decay  of  the  ice.  I  stooped  to 
drink  ;  but,  cool  to  the  eye  and  hand  and  lips,  it  yet  burned 
me  within  like  fire.  I  would  seek  shelter  from  the  sun  inside 
the  cave.  I  entered,  and  knew  that  the  cold  was  all  around 
me ;  I  even  felt  it ;  but  somehow  it  did  not  enter  into  me. 
My  brain,  my  very  bones,  burned  with  fire.  I  went  in  and  in. 
The  blue  atmosphere  closed  around  me,  and  the  color  entered 
into  my  soul  till  it  seemed  dyed  with  the  potent  blue.  My 
very  being  swam  and  floated  in  a  blue  atmosphere  of  its  own. 
My  intention — I  can  recall  it  perfectly — was  but  to  w^alk  to 
the  end,  a  few  yards,  then  turn  and  again  brave  the  sun  ;  for 
I  had  a  dim  feeling  of  forsaking  my  work,  of  playing  truant, 
or  of  being  cowardly  in  thus  avoiding  the  heat.  Something 
else,  too,  was  wrong,  but  I  could  not  clearly  tell  what.  As  I 
went  on,  I  began  to  wonder  that  I  had  not  come  to  the  end. 
The  gray  walls  yet  rose  about  me,  a,nd  even  the  film  of  disso- 
lution flowed  along  their  glassy  faces  to  the  runnel  below ; 
still  before  me  opened  the  depth  of  blue  atmosphere,  deep- 
ening as  I  went.  After  many  windings  the  path  began  to 
branch,  and  soon  I  wai  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  passages,  of 


ANOTHER   DREAM.  449 

which  I  knew  not  why  I  should  choose  one  rather  than 
another.  It  was  useless  now  to  think  of  returning  Arbi- 
trarily I  chose  the  narrowest  way,  and  still  went  on. 

A  discoloration  of  the  ice  attracted  my  attention,  and  as  I 
looked  it  seemed  to  retreat  into  the  solid  mass.  There  was 
something  not  ice  within  it  which  grew  more  and  more  distinct 
as  I  gazed,  until  at  last  I  plainly  distinguished  the  form  of 
my  grandmother,  lying  as  then  when  my  aunt  made  me  touch 
her  face.  A  few  yards  further  on  lay  the  body  of  my  uncle, 
as  I  saw  him  in  his  coffin.  His  face  was  dead  white  in  the 
midst  of  the  cold,  clear  ice,  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  arms 
straight  by  his  sides.  He  lay  like  an  alabaster  king  upon  his 
tomb.  It  was  he,  I  thought,  but  he  would  never  speak  to  me 
more — never  look  at  me — never  more  awake.  There  lay  all 
that  was  left  of  him — the  cold  frozen  memory  of  what  he  had 
been  and  would  never  be  again.  I  did  not  weep.  I  only 
knew  somehow  in  my  dream  that  life  was  all  a  wandering  in 
a  frozen  cave,  where  the  faces  of  the  living  were  dark  with 
the  coming  corruption,  and  the  memories  of  the  dead,  cold 
and  clear  and  hopeless  evermore,  alone  were  lovely. 

I  walked  further ;  for  the  ice  might  possess  yet  more  of  the 
past — all  that  was  left  me  of  life.  And  again  I  stood  and 
gazed,  for,  deep  within,  I  saw  the  form  of  Charley — at  rest 
now,  his  face  bloodless,  but  not  so  death-like  as  my  uncle's. 
His  hands  were  laid  palm  to  palm  over  his  bosom,  and  pointed 
upwards  as  if  praying  for  comfort  where  comfort  was  none ; 
here  at  least  were  no  flickerings  of  the  rainbow  fancies  of 
faith  and  hope  and  charity  !  I  gazed  in  comfortless  content 
for  a  time  on  the  repose  of  my  weary  friend,  and  then  went 
on,  only  moved  to  see  what  further  the  ice  of  the  godless  region 
might  hold.  Nor  had  I  wandered  far  when  I  saw  the  form 
of  Mary,  lying  like  the  rest,  only  that  her  hands  were  crossed 
on  her  bosom.  I  stood,  wondering  to  find  myself  so  little 
moved.  But  when  the  ice  drew  nigh  me,  and  would  have 
closed  around  me,  my  heart  leaped  for  joy ;  and  when  the 
heat  of  ray  lingering  life  repelled  it,  my  heart  sunk  within 
me,  and  I  said  to  myself:  "  Death  will  not  have  me.  I  may 
29 


450  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

not  join  lier  even  in  the  land  of  cold  forgetfulness  :    I   may 
not  even  be  nothing  with  her."     The  tears  began  to  flow  down 
my  face,  like  the  thin  vail  of   water  that  kept  ever  flowing 
down  the  face  of  the  ice  ;  and  as  I  wept,  the  water  before  me 
flowed  faster  and  faster,  till  it  rippled  in  a  sheet  down  the 
icy  wall.     Faster   and  yet  faster  it  flowed,  falling,  with  the 
sound   as   of    many  showers,  into   the   runnel   below,  which 
rushed   splashing    and  gurgling  away  from  the  foot  of  the 
vanishing  wall.     Faster  and  flister  it  flowed,  until  the  solid 
mass  fell  in  a  foaming  cataract,  and  swept  in  a  torrent  across 
the  cave.     I  followed  the  retreating  wall  through  the  seething 
water   at  its   foot.     Thinner  and  thinner  grew  the  dividing 
mass ;  nearer  and  nearer  came  the  form  of  my  Mary.     "  I 
shall  yet  clasp  her,"  I  cried;  "her  dead  form  will  kill  me, 
and  I  too  shall  be  enclosed  in  the  friendly  ice.     I  shall  not  be 
with  her,  alas ;  but  neither  shall  I  be  without  her,  for  I  shall 
depart  into  the   lovely  nothingness."     Thinner  and  thinner 
grew  the  dividing  wall.     The  skirt  of  her  shroud  hung  like  a 
wet  weed  in  the  falling  torrent.     I  kneeled  in  the  river,  and 
crept  nearer,  with  outstretched  arms :  when  the  vanishing  ice 
set  the  dead  form  free,  it  should  rest  in  those  arms — the  last 
sift  of  the  life-dream — for  then,  surelv,  I  must  die.     "Let  me 
pass  in  the  agony  of  a  lonely  embrace  !"  I  cried.     As  I  spoke 
she  moved.     I  started  to  my  feet,  stung  into  life  by  the  agony 
of  a  new  hope.     Slowly  the  ice  released  her,  and  gently  she 
rose  to  her   feet.     The  torrents  of  water  ceased — they  had 
flowed  but  to  set  her  free.     Her  eyes  were  still  closed,  but  she 
made  one  blind  step  towards  me,  and  laid  her  left  hand  on  my 
head,  her  right  hand  on  my  heart.     Instantly,  body  and  soul, 
I  was  cool  as  a  summer  eve  after  a  thunder-shower.     For  a 
moment,  precious  as  an  aeon,  she  held  her  hands  upon  me — 
then  slowly  opened  her  eyes.     Out  of  them  flashed  the  living 
soul  of  my  Athanasia.     She  closed  the  lids  again  slowly  over 
the  lovely  splendor  ;  the  water  in  which  we  stood  rose  around 
us,  and   on  its   last   billow  she  .  floated   away  through    the 
winding  passage  of  the  cave.     I  sought  to  follow  her,  but 
could  not.     I  cried  aloud  and  awoke. 


ANOTHER   DREAM.  451 

But  the  burning  heat  had  left  me  ;  I  felt  that  I  had  passed 
a  crisis,  and  had  begun  to  recover — a  conviction  which  would 
have  been  altogether  unwelcome,  but  for  the  poor  shadow  of  a 
reviving  hope  which  accompanied  it.  Such  a  dream,  come 
whence  it  might,  could  not  but  bring  comfort  with  it.  The 
hope  grew,  and  was  my  sole  medicine. 

Before  the  evening  I  felt  better,  and  though  still  very- 
feeble,  managed  to  write  to  Marston,  letting  him  know  I  was 
safe,  and  requesting  him  to  forward  any  letters  that  might 
arrive. 

The  next  day  I  rose,  but  was  unable  to  work.  The  very 
thought  of  writing  sickened  me.  Neither  could  I  bear  the 
thought  of  returning  to  London.  I  tried  to  read,  but  threw 
aside  book  after  book,  without  being  able  to  tell  what  one  of 
them  was  about.  If  for  a  moment  I  seemed  to  enter  into  the 
subject,  before  I  reached  the  bottom  of  the  page  I  found  I  had 
not  an  idea  as  to  what  the  words  meant  or  whither  they  tended. 
After  many  failures,  unwilling  to  give  myself  up  to  idle  brood- 
ing, I  fortunately  tried  some  of  the  mystical  poetry  of  the 
seventeenth  century :  the  difficulties  of  that  I  found  to  rather 
stimulate  than  repel  me ;  while,  much  as  there  was  in  the  form 
to  displease  the  taste,  there  was  more  in  the  matter  to  rouse 
the  intellect.  I  found  also  some  relief  in  resuming  my  mathe- 
matical studies :  the  abstraction  of  them  acted  as  an  anodyne. 
But  the  days  dragged  wearily. 

As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  get  on  horseback,  the  tone  of  mind 
and  body  began  to  return.  I  felt  as  if  into  me  some  sort  of 
animal  healing  passed  from  Lilith ;  and  who  can  tell  in 
how  many  ways  the  lower  animals  may  not  minister  to  the 
higher  ? 

One  night  I  had  a  strange  experience.  I  give  it  without 
argument,  perfectly  aware  that  the  fact  may  be  set  down  to  the 
disordered  state  of  my  physical  nature,  and  that  without  injus- 
tice. 

I  had  not  for  a  long  time  thought  about  one  of  the  questions 
which  had  so  much  occupied  Charley  and  myself — that  of 
immortality.     As  to  any  communication  between  the  parted, 


452  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

I  had  never,  during  his  life,  pondered  the  possibility  of  it, 
although  I  had  always  had  an  inclination  to  believe  that  such 
intercourse  had  in  rare  instances  taken  place :  former  periods 
of  the  world's  history,  when  that  blinding  self-consciousness 
which  is  the  bane  of  ours  was  yet  undeveloped,  must,  I 
thought,  have  been  far  more  favorable  to  its  occurrence. 
Anyhow  I  was  con v meed  that  it  was  not  to  be  gained  by 
effort.  I  confess  that,  in  the  unthinking  agony  of  grief  after 
Charley's  death,  many  a  time  when  I  woke  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  and  could  sleep  no  more,  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  prayed 
him,  if  he  heard  me,  to  come  to  me,  and  let  me  tell  him  the 
truth — for  my  sake  to  let  me  know  at  least  that  he  lived,  for 
then  I  should  be  sure  that  one  day  all  would  be  well.  But  if 
there  was  any  hearing,  there  was  no  answer.  Charley  did  not 
come ;  the  prayer  seemed  to  vanish  in  the  darkness ;  and  my 
more  self-possessed  meditations  never  justified  the  hope  of  any 
such  being  heard. 

One  night  I  was  sitting  in  my  grannie's  room,  which,  except 
my  uncle's,  was  now  the  only  one  I  could  bear  to  enter.  I 
had  been  reading  for  some  time  very  quietly,  but  had  leaned 
back  in  my  chair,  and  let  my  thoughts  go  wandering  whither 
they  would,  when  all  at  once  I  was  possessed  by  the  conviction 
that  Charley  was  near  me.  I  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing ;  of 
the  recognized  senses  of  humanity  not  one  gave  me  a  hint  of  a 
presence ;  and  yet  my  whole  body  was  aware — so  at  least  it 
seemed — of  the  proximity  of  another  I.  It  was  as  if  some 
nervous  region  commensurate  with  my  frame  were  now  for  the 
first  time  revealed  by  contact  with  an  object  suitable  for  its 
apprehension.  Like  Eliphaz,  I  felt  the  hair  of  my  head  stand 
up — not  from  terror,  but  simply,  as  it  seemed,  from  the  pres- 
ence and  its  strangeness.  Like  others  also  of  whom  I  have 
read,  who  believed  themselves  in  the  presence  of  the  disem- 
bodied, I  could  not  speak.  I  tried,  but  as  if  the  medium  for 
sound  had  been  withdrawn,  and  an  empty  gulf  lay  around  me, 
no  word  followed,  although  my  very  soul  was  full  of  the  cry — 
Charley!  Charley!  And  alas!  in  a  few  moments,  like  the 
faint  vanishing  of  an  unrealized  thought,  leaving  only  the 


a:cjother  deeam.  453 

assurance  that  somethiug  half-born  from  out  of  the  unknown 
had  been  there,  the  influence  faded  and  died.  It  passed  from 
me  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  and  once  more  I  knew  but  my 
poor  lonely  self,  returning  to  its  candles,  its  open  book,  its 
burning  fire. 


454:  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   LVIII. 

THE   DARKEST   HOUR. 

Suffering  is  perhaps  the  only  preparation  for  suffering : 
till  I  was  but  poorly  prepared  for  what  followed. 

Having  gathered  strength,  and  a  certain  quietness  which  I 
could  not  mistake  for  peace,  I  returned  to  London  towards  the 
close  of  the  spring.  I  had  in  the  interval  heard  nothing  of 
Mary.  The  few  letters  Marston  had  sent  on  had  been  almost 
exclusively  from  my  j^ublishers.  But  the  very  hour  I  reached 
my  lodging,  came  a  note,  which  I  opened  trembling,  for  it  was 
in  the  handwriting  of  Miss  Pease. 

"  Dear  sir,  I  cannot,  I  think,  be  wrong  in  giving  you  a 
piece  of  information  which  will  be  in  the  newspapers  to-mor- 
row morning.  Your  old  acquaintance,  and  my  young  rela- 
tive, Mr.  Brotherton,  was  married  this  morning,  at  St.  George's, 
Hanover  Square,  to  your  late  friend's  sister,  Miss  Mary 
Osborne.     They  have  just   left   for   Dover  on   their  way  to 

Switzerland. 

"  Your  sincere  well-wisher, 

"Jane  Pease." 

Even  at  this  distance  of  time,  I  should  have  to  exhort 
myself  to  write  with  calmness,  were  it  not  that  the  utter 
despair  of  conveying  my  feelings,  if  indeed  my  soul  had  not 
for  the  time  passed  beyond  feeling  into  some  abyss  unknown 
to  human  consciousness,  renders  it  unnecessary.  This  desjoair 
of  communication  has  two  sources — the  one  simply  the  con- 
viction of  the  impossibility  of  expressing  any  feeling,  much 
more  such  feeling  as  mine  then  was — and  is  ;  the  other  the  con- 
viction that  only  to  the  heart  of  love  can  the  sufferings  of  love 
speak.  The  attempt  of  a  lover  to  move,  by  the  presentation 
of  his  own  suffering,  the  heart  of  her  who  loves  him  not,  is  as 


THE   DARKEST   HOUR. 


455 


unavailing  an  it  is  unmanly.  The  poet  who  siilgS  mC*st  wail- 
fully  of  the  torments  of  the  lover's  hell,  is  but  a  sou^^i^g 
brass  and  a  tinkling  cymbal  in  the  ears  of  her  who  has  at  be*  ^ 
only  a  general  compassion  to  meet  the  song  withal — possibly 
only  an  individual  vanity  which  crowns  her  with  his  woes  as 
with  the  trophies  of  a  conquest.  True,  he  is  understood  and 
worshipped  by  all  the  other  wailful  souls  in  the  first  infernal 
circle,  as  one  of  the  great  men  of  their  order — able  to  put  into 
words  full  of  sweet  torment  the-  dire  hopelessness  of  their 
misery ;  but  for  such  the  singer,  singing  only  for  ears  eternally 
deaf  to  his  song,  cares  nothing  ;  or  if  for  a  moment  he  receive 
consolation  from  their  sympathy,  it  is  but  a  passing  weakness 
which  the  breath  of  an  indignant  self-condemnation — even 
contempt,  the  next  moment  sweeps  away.  In  God  alone  there 
must  be  sympathy  and  cure ;  but  I  had  not  then — have  I 
indeed  yet  found  what  that  cure  is  ?  I  am  at  all  events  now 
able  to  write  with  calmness.  If  suffering  destroyed  itself,  as 
some  say,  mine  ought  to  have  disappeared  long  ago ;  but  to 
that  I  can  neither  pretend  nor  confess. 

For  the  first  time,  after  all  I  had  encountered,  I  knew  what 
suffering  could  be.  It  is  still  at  moments  an  agony  as  of  hell 
to  recall  this  and  the  other  thought  that  then  stung  me  like  a 
white-hot  arrow ;  the  shafts  have  long  been  drawn  out,  but  the 
barbed  heads  are  still  there.  I  neither  stormed  nor  maddsned. 
I  only  felt  a  freezing  hand  lay  hold  of  my  heart,  and  gripe  it 
closer  and  closer  till  I  should  have  sickened,  but  that  the  pain 
ever  stung  me  into  fresh  life ;  and  ever  since  I  have  gone  about 
the  world  with  that  hard  lump  somewhere  in  my  bosom  into 
which  the  griping  hand  and  the  griped  heart  have  grown  and 
stiffened. 

I  fled  at  once  back  to  my  solitary  house,  looking  for  no 
relief  in  its  solitude,  only  the  negative  comfort  of  escaping  the 
eyes  of  men.  I  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  my  fellow-crea- 
tures. To  say  that  the  world  had  grown  black  to  me,  is  as 
nothing:  I  ceased— I  will  not  say  to  believe  in  God,  for  I 
never  dared  say  that  mighty  thing — but  I  ceased  to  hope  in 
God.     The  universe  had  grown  a  negation  which  yet  forced 


456  Wilfrid  cumbermede. 

its  presence  upon  me — a  death  that  bred  worms.  If  there  were 
^  G'>d  anywhere,  this  universe  could  be  nothing  more  than  his 
lorsakea  moth-eaten  garment.  He  was  a  God  who  did  not 
care.  Order  was  all  an  invention  of  p]iOi-i)horcscent  human 
brains ;  light  itself  the  mocking  smile  of  a  Jupiter  over  his 
writhing  sacrifices.  At  times  I  laughed  at  the  tortures  of  my 
own  heart,  saying  to  it,  "  Writhe  on,  worm ;  thou  deservest 
thy  writhing  in  that  thou  writhest.  Godless  creature,  why 
dost  thou  not  laugh  -with  me?  Am  I  not  merry  over  thee  and 
the  world  — in  that  ye  are  both  rottenness  to  the  core?"  The 
next  moment  my  heart  and  I  would  come  together  with  a 
shock,  and  I  know  it  was  myself  that  scorned  myself. 

Such  being  my  mood  it  will  cause  no  surprise  if  I  say  that 
I  too  was  tempted  to  suicide ;  the  wonder  would  have  been  if 
it  had  been  otherwise.  The  soft  keen  curves  of  that  fatal 
dagger,  which  had  not  only  slain  Charley  but  all  ray  hopes — 
for  had  he  lived  this  horror  could  not  have  been — grew  almost 
lovely  in  my  eyes.  Until  now  it  had  looked  cruel,  fiendish, 
hateful :  but  now  I  would  lay  it  before  me  and  contemplate  it, 
In  some  griefs  there  is  a  wonderful  power  of  self-contempla- 
tion, which  indeed  forms  their  only  solace ;  the  moment  it  can 
set  the  sorrow  away  from  itself  sufficiently  to  regard  it,  the 
tortured  heart  begins  to  repose ;  but  suddenly,  like  a  waking 
tiger,  the  sorrow  leaps  again  into  its  lair,  and  the  agony  com- 
mences anew.  The  dagger  was  the  type  of  my  grief  and  its 
torture :  might  it  not,  like  the  brazen  serpent,  be  the  cure  for 
the  sting  of  its  living  counterpart?  But,  alas!  where  was  the 
certainty?  Could  I  slay  rnyself  f  This  outer  breathing  form 
I  could  dismiss — but  the  pain  was  not  there.  I  was  not  mad, 
and  I  knew  that  a  deeper  death  than  that  could  give,  at  least 
than  I  had  any  assurance  that  could  give,  alone  could  bring 
repose.  For,  impossible  as  I  had  alway  found  it  actually  to 
believe  in  immortality,  I  now  found  it  equally  impossible  to 
believe  in  annihilation.  And  even  if  annihilation  should  be 
the  final  result,  who  could  tell  but  it  might  require  ages  of  a 
horrible  slow-decaying  dream-consciousness,  to  kill  the  living 
thing  which  felt  itself  other  than  its  body? 


THE    DARKEST    HOUR.  457 

Until  now,  I  had  always  accepted  what  seemed  the  natural 
and  universal  repugnance  to  absolute  dissolution,  'as  the 
strongest  argument  on  the  side  of  immortality ; — for  why 
should  a  man  shrink  from  that  which  belonged  to  his  nature  ? 
But  now  annihilation  seemed  the  one  lovely  thing,  the  one  sole 
only  lonely  thought  in  which  lay  no  blackness  of  burning 
darkness.  Oh  for  one  eternal  unconscious  sleep ! — the  nearest 
likeness  we  can  cherish  of  that  inconceivable  nothingness — 
ever  denied  by  the  very  thinking  of  it — by  the  vain  attempt 
to  realize  that  whose  very  existence  is  the  knowing  nothing  of 
itself!  Could  that  dagger  have  insured  me  such  repose,  or 
had  there  been  any  draught  of  Lethe,  utter  Lethe,  whose 
blessed  poison  would  have  assuredly  dissipated  like  a  fume 
this  conscious,  self-tormenting  me,  I  should  not  now  be  writh- 
ing anew,  as  in  the  clutches  of  an  old  grief,  clasping  me  like  a 
corpse,  stung  to  simulated  life  by  the  galvanic  battery  of  recol- 
lection. Vivid  as  it  seems — all  I  suffer  as  I  write  is  but  a  faint 
phantasm  of  what  I  then  endured. 

I  learned  therefore  that  to  some  minds  the  argument  for 
immortality  drawn  from  the  apparently  universal  shrinking 
from  annihilation  must  be  ineffectual,  seeing  they  themselves 
do  not  shrink  from  it.  Convince  a  man  that  there  is  no  God 
— or,  for  I  doubt  if  that  be  altogether  possible — make  it,  I 
will  say,  impossible  for  him  to  hope  in  God — and  it  cannot  be 
that  annihilation  should  seem  an  evil.  If  there  is  no  God,  '^ 
annihilation  is  the  one  thing  to  be  longed  for  with  all  that 
might  of  longing  which  is  the  mainspring  of  human  action. 
In  a  word,  it  is  not  immortality  the  human  heart  cries  out  after, 
but  that  immortal  eternal  thought  whose  life  is  its  life,  whose 
wisdom  is  its  wisdom,  whose  ways  and  whose  thoughts  shall — 
must  one  day — become  its  ways  and  its  thoughts.  Dissociate 
immortality  from  the  living  Immortality  and  it  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  desired— not  a  thing  that  can  on  those  terms,  or  even  on 
the  fancy  of  those  terms,  be  desired. 

But  such  thoughts  as  these  were  far  enough  from  me  then. 
I  lived  because  I  despaired  of  death.  I  ate  by  a  sort  of  blind 
animal  instinct,  and  so  lived.     The  time  had   been  when  I 


458  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

"vvould  despise  myself  for  being  able  to  eat  in  the  midst  of  emo* 
tiou ;  but  now  I  cared  so  little  for  the  emotion  even,  that  eat- 
ing or  not  eating  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  I  ate 
because  meat  Wiis  set  before  me;  I  slept  because  sleep  came 
upon  me.  It  was  a  horrible  time.  My  life  seemed  only  a  ver- 
miculate  one,  a  crawling  about  of  half-thoughts,  half-feelings 
through  the  corpse  of  a  decaying  existence.  The  heart  of 
being  was  withdrawn  from  me,  and  my  life  was  but  the  vacant 
pericardium  in  which  it  had  once  throbbed  out  and  sucked  in 
the  red  fountains  of  life  and  gladness. 

I  would  not  be  thought  to  have  fallen  to  this  all  but  bottom- 
less depth  only  because  I  had  lost  Mary.  Still  less  was  it  be- 
cause of  the  fact  that  in  her,  around  whom  had  gathered  all 
the  devotion  with  which  the  man  in  me  could  regard  woman,  I 
had  lost  all  womankind.  It  was  the  loss  of  Mary,  as  I  then 
judged  it,  not,  I  repeat,  the  fact  that  J  had  lost  her.  It  was 
that  she  had  lost  herself.  Thence  it  was,  I  say,  that  I  lost  my 
hope  in  God.  For,  if  there  were  a  God,  how  could  he  let 
purity  be  clasped  in  the  arms  of  defilement?  how  could  he 
marry  my  Aihanasia — not  to  a  corpse,  but  to  a  Plague  ?  Here 
was  the  man  who  had  done  more  to  ruin  her  brother  than  any 
but  her  father,  and  God  had  given  her  to  him  I  I  had  had — 
with  the  commonest  of  men — some  notion  of  womanly  purity 
— how  was  it  that  hers  had  not  instinctively  shuddered  and 
shrunk  ?  how  was  it  that  the  life  of  it  had  not  taken  refuge 
with  death  to  shun  bare  contact  with  the  coarse  impurity  of 
such  a  nature  as  that  of  Geoffrey  Brotherton  ?  My  dreams 
had  been  dreams  indeed !  Was  my  Aihanasia  dead,  or  had 
she  never  been  ?  In  my  thought,  she  had  "  said  to  Corrui^tion, 
Thou  art  my  father ;  to  the  worm,  thou  art  my  mother  and 
my  sister."  Who  should  henceforth  say  of  any  woman  that 
she  was  impure  ?  She  might  love  him — true  ;  but  what  was 
she  then  who  was  able  to  love  such  a  man  ?  It  was  this  that 
stormed  the  citadel  of  my  hope,  and  drove  me  from  even  think- 
ing of  a  God. 

Gladly  would  I  now  have  welcomed  any  bodily  suffering 
that  could  hide  me  from  myself;  but  no  illness  came.     I  was 


THE   DARKEST   HOUR.  459 

a  living  pain,  a  conscious  ill-being.  In  a  thousand  forms  those 
questions  would  ever  recur,  but  without  hope  of  answer. 
When  I  fell  asleep  from  exhaustion,  hideous  visions  of  her 
with  Geoffrey  would  start  me  up  with  a  great  cry,  sometimes 
with  a  curse  on  my  lips.  Nor  were  they  the  rnost  horrible  of 
tliose  dreams  m  which  she  would  help  him  to  mock  me.  Once, 
and  only  once,  I  found  myself  dreaming  the  dream  of  that 
night,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  dreamed  it  before  Through 
palace  and  chapel  and  charnel  house,  I  followed  her,  ever  with 
a  dim  sense  of  awful  result ;  and  when  at  last  she  lifted  the 
shining  veil,  instead  of  the  face  of  Athanasia,  the  bare  teeth 
of  a  skull  grinned  at  me  from  under  a  spotted  shroud,  through 
which  the  sunlight  shone  from  behind,  revealing  all  its  horrors. 
I  was  not  mad — my  reason  had  not  given,  way :  how  remains  a 
marveL 


460  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   LIX. 


THE    DAWN. 


All  places  were  alike  to  me  now — for  the  universe  was  but 
one  dreary  chasm  whence  I  could  not  escape.  One  evening  I 
sat  by  the  open  window  of  my  chamber,  which  looked  towards 
those  trees  and  that  fatal  Mold  warp  Hall.  My  suffering  had 
now  grown  dull  by  its  own  excess,  and  I  had  moments  of  list- 
less vacuity,  the  nearest  approach  to  peace  I  had  yet  experi- 
enced. It  was  a  fair  evening  of  early  summer — but  I  was 
utterly  careless  of  nature  as  of  all  beyond  it.  The  sky  was 
nothing  to  me — and  the  earth  was  all  unlovely.  There  I  sat, 
heavy,  but  free  from  torture ;  a  kind  of  quiet  had  stolen  over 
me.  I  was  roused  by  the  tiniest  breath  of  wind  on  my  cheek, 
as  if  the  passing  wing  of  some  butterfly  had  fanned  me ;  and 
on  that  faintest  motion  came  a  scent  as  from  long-forgotten 
fields,  a  scent  like  as  of  sweet-peas  or  wild  roses,  but  of  neither : 
flowers  were  none  nearer  me  than  the  gardens  of  the  Hall.  I 
started  with  a  cry.  It  was  the  scent  of  the  garments  of  my 
Athanasia,  as  I  had  dreamed  it  in  my  dream  !  Whence  that 
wind  had  borne  it,  who  could  tell  ?  but  in  the  husk  that  had 
overgrown  my  being  it  had  found  a  cranny,  and  through  that 
cranny,  with  the  scent,  Nature  entered.  I  looked  up  to  the 
blue  sky,  wept,  and  for  the  first  time  fell  on  my  knees.  "  O 
God !"  I  cried,  and  that  was  all.  But  what  are  the  prayers  of 
the  whole  universe  more  than  expansions  of  that  one  cry  ?  It 
is  not  what  God  can  give  us  but  God  that  we  want.  Call  the 
whole  thing  fancy  if  you  will ;  it  was  at  least  no  fancy  that  the 
next  feeling  of  which  I  was  conscious  was  compassion:  from 
that  moment  I  began  to  search  heaven  and  earth  and  the  soul 
of  man  and  woman  for  excuses  wherewith  to  clothe  the  idea 
of  JNIary  Osborne.  For  weeks  and  weeks  I  pondered,  and  by 
degrees  the  following  conclusions  wrought  themselves  out  in 
my  brain : — 

That  she  had  never  seen  life  as  a  whole ;  that  her  reli^-ious 


THE   DAWN.  461 

theories  had  ever  been  eating  away  and  absorbing  her  life,  so 
preventing  her  religion  from  interpenetrating  and  glorifying  it ; 
that  in  regard  to  certain  facts  and  consequences  she  had  been 
loft  to  an  ignorance  which  her  innocence  rendered  profound  ; 
that,  attracted  by  the  worldly  splendor  of  the  offer,  her  father 
and  mother  had  urged  her  compliance,  and,  broken  in  spirit  by 
the  fate  of  Charley,  and  having  always  been  taught  that  self- 
denial  was  in  itself  a  virtue,  she  had  taken  the  worldly  desires 
of  her  parents  for  the  will  of  God,  and  blindly  yielded ;  that 
Brotherton  was  capable,  for  his  ends,  of  representing  himself 
as  possessed  of  religion  enough  to  satisfy  the  scruples  of  her 
parents,  and,  such  being  satisfied,  she  had  resisted  her  own  as 
evil  things. 

Whether  his  hatred  of  me  had  had  any  share  in  his  desire 
to  possess  her,  I  hardly  thought  of  inquiring. 

Of  course  I  did  not  for  a  single  moment  believe  that  Mary 
had  had  the  slightest  notion  of  the  bitterness,  the  torture,  the 
temptation  of  Satan  it  would  be  to  me.  Doubtless  the  feeling 
of  her  father  concerning  the  death  of  Charley  had  seemed  to 
hollow  an  impassable  gulf  between  us.  Worn  and  weak,  and 
not  knowing  what  she  did,  my  dearest  friend  had  yielded  her- 
self to  the  embrace  of  my  deadliest  foe.  If  he  was  such  as  I 
had  too  good  reason  for  believing  him,  she  was  far  more  to  be 
pitied  than  I.  Lonely  she  must  be — lonely  as  I — for  who  was 
there  to  understand  and  love  her  ?  Bitterly  too  by  this  time 
she  must  have  suffered,  for  the  dove  can  never  be  at  peace  in 
the  bosom  of  the  vulture,  or  cease  to  hate  the  carrion  of 
which  he  must  ever  carry  about  with  him  at  least  tne  disgust- 
ing memorials.  Alas !  I  too  had  been  her  enemy,  and  had 
cried  out  against  her ;  but  now  I  would  love  her  more  and 
better  than  ever !  Oh !  if  I  knew  but  something  I  could  do 
for  her,  some  service  which  on  the  bended  knees  of  my  spirit 
I  might  offer  her !  I  clomb  the  heights  of  my  grief,  and 
looked  abroad,  but  alas !  I  was  such  a  poor  creature !  A  dab- 
bler in  the  ways  of  the  world,  a  writer  of  tales  which  even 
those  who  cared  to  read  them  counted  fantastic  and  Utopian, 
who  was  I  to  weave  a  single  silken  thread  into  the  web  of  her 


462  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

life?  How  could  I  bear  her  one  poorest  service?  Never  in 
this  world  could  I  approach  her  near  enough  to  touch  yet  once 
again  the  hem  of  her  garment.  All  I  could  do  was  to  love 
her.  No — I  could  and  did  sutfcr  for  her.  Alas  !  that  suffer- 
ing was  only  for  myself,  and  could  do  nothing  for  her !  It  was 
indeed  some  consolation  to  me  that  my  misery  came  from  her 
hand ;  but  if  she  knew  it,  it  would  but  add  to  her  pain.  In 
my  heart  I  could  only  pray  her  pardon  for  my  wicked  and 
selfish  thoughts  concerning  her,  and  vow  again  and  ever  to 
regard  her  as  my  Athanasia.  But  yes  !  there  was  one  thing  I 
could  do  for  her :  I  would  be  a  true  man  for  her  sake ;  she 
should  have  some  satisfaction  m  me  ;  I  would  once  more  arise 
and  go  to  my  Father. 

The  instant  the  thought  arose  in  my  mind,  I  fell  down 
before  the  possible  God  in  an  agony  of  weeping.  All  com- 
plaint of  my  own  doom  had  vanished,  now  that  I  began  to  do 
her  the  justice  of  love.  Why  should  I  be  blessed — here  and 
now  at  least — according  to  my  notions  of  blessedness  ?  Let 
the  great  heart  of  the  universe  do  with  me  as  it  pleased !  Let 
the  Supreme  take  his  own  time  to  justify  himself  to  the  heart 
that  sought  to  love  him !  I  gave  up  myself,  was  willing  to 
suffer,  to  be  a  living  pain,  so  long  as  he  pleased ;  and  the 
moment  I  yielded,  half  the  pain  was  gone;  I  gave  my  Atha- 
nasia yet  again  to  God,  and  all  might  yet,  in  some  high,  far- 
off,  better-world-way,  be  well.  I  could  wait  and  endure.  If 
only  God  was,  and  was  God,  then  it  was,  or  would  be,  well 
with  Mary — well  with  me ! 

But,  as  I  still  sat,  a  flow  of  sweet  sad  repentant  thought 
passing  gently  through  my  bosom,  all  at  once  the  self  to  which, 
unable  to  confide  it  to  the  care  of  its  own  very  life,  the  God 
conscious  of  himself  and  in  himself  conscious  of  it,  I  had 
been  for  months  offering  the  sacrifices  of  despair  and  indigna- 
tion, arose  in  spectral  hideousness  before  me.  I  saw  that  I,  a 
child  of  the  infinite,  had  been  worshipping  the  finite  —and 
therein  dragging  down  the  infinite  towards  the  fate  of  the  finite. 
I  do  not  mean  that  in  Mary  Osborne  I  had  been  worshipping 
the  finite.     It  was  the  eternal,  the  lovely,  the  true  that  in  her 


THE    DAWN.  403 

I  had  been  worshipping :  in  myself  I  had  been  worshipping 
the  mean,  the  selfish,  the  finite,  the  god  of  spiritual  greed. 
Only  in  himself  can  a  man  fiud  the  finite  to  worship;  only  in 
turning  back  upon  himself  does  he  create  the  finite  for  and  by 
his  worship.  All  the  works  of  God  are  everlasting  ;  the  only 
perishable  are  some  of  the  works  of  man.     All  love  is  a  wor- 

V  ship  of  the  infinite :  what  is  called  a  man's  love  for  himself,  is 
not  love;  it  is  but  a  phantastic  resemblance  of  love;  it  is  a 
creating  of  the  finite,  a  creation  of  death.    A  man  cannot  love 

1  himself.  If  all  love  be  not  creation — as  I  think  it  is — it  is  at 
least  the  only  thing  in  harmony  with  creation  and  the  love  of 
oneself  is  its  absolute  opposite.  I  sickened  at  the  sight  of 
myself:  how  should  I  ever  get  rid  of  the  demon  ?  The  same 
instant  I  saw  the  one  escape:  I  must  offer  it  back  to  its  source 
— commit  it  to  him  who  had  made  it.  I  must  live  no  more 
from  it,  but  from  the  source  of  it ;  seek  to  know  nothing  more 
of  it  than  he  gave  me  to  know  by  his  presence  therein.  Thus 
might  I  become  one  with  the  Eternal  in  such  an  absorption  as 
Buddha  had  never  dreamed  ;  thus  might  I  draw  life  ever 
fresh  from  its  fountain.  And  in  that  fountain  alone  would  I 
contemplate  its  reflex.  What  flashes  of  self-consciousness 
might  cross  me,  should  be  God's  gift,  not  of  my  seeking,  and 
offered  again  to  him  in  ever  new  self  sacrifice.  Alas !  alas ! 
this  I  saw  then,  and  this  I  yet  see ;  but  oh,  how  far  am  I  still 
from  that  divine  annihilation  !  The  only  comfort  is,  God  is, 
and  I  am  his,  else  I  should  not  be  at  all. 

I  saw  too  that  thus  God  also  lives — in  his  higher  way.  I 
saw,  shadowed  out  in  the  absolute  devotion  of  Jesus  to  men, 
that  the  very  life  of  God  by  which  we  live  is  an  everlasting 
eternal  giving  of  himself  away.  He  asserts  himself,  only, 
solely,  altogether,  in  an  infinite  sacrifice  of  devotion.  So  must 
we  live ;  the  child  must  be  as  the  father ;  live  he  cannot  on 
any  other  plan,  struggle  as  he  may.  The  father  requires  of 
him  nothing  that  he  is  not  or  does  not  himself,  who  is  the  one 
prime  unconditioned  sacrificer  and  sacrifice.  I  threw  myself 
on  the  ground,  and  offered  back  my  poor  wretched  self  to  its 
owner,  to  be  taken  and  kept,  purified  and  made  divine. 


4G4  WILFRID   CUMEERMEDE. 

The  same  momcut  a  sense  of  reviving  health  began  to 
possess  me.  With  many  fluctuations,  it  has  possessed  me,  has 
grown,  and  is  now,  if  not  a  persistent  cheerfulness,  yet  an 
unyielding  hope.  The  world  bloomed  again  around  me.  The 
sunrise  again  grew  gloriously  dear ;  and  the  sadness  of  the 
moon  was  lighted  from  a  higher  sun  than  that  which  returns 
with  the  morning. 

My  relation  to  Mary  resolved  and  re-formed  itself  in  my 
mind  into  something  I  can  explain  only  by  the  following — 
call  it  dream ;  it  was  not  a  dream  ;  call  it  a  vision ;  it  was  not 
a  vision  ;  and  yet  I  will  tell  it  as  if  it  were  either,  being  far 
truer  than  either. 

I  lay  like  a  child  on  one  of  God's  arms.  I  could  not  see 
his  face,  and  the  arm  that  held  me  was  a  great  cloudy  arm. 
I  knew  that  on  his  other  arm  lay  Mary.  But  between  us 
were  forests  and  plains,  mountains  and  great  seas ;  and,  un- 
speakably worse  than  all,  a  gulf  with  which  words  had 
nothing  to  do,  a  gulf  of  pure  separation,  of  impassable 
nothingness,  across  which  no  device,  I  say  not  of  human  skill, 
but  of  human  imagination,  could  cast  a  single  connecting  cord. 
There  lay  Mary  and  here  lay  I — both  in  God's  arms — utterly 
parted.  As  in  a  swoon  I  lay,  through  which  suddenly  came 
the  words :  "  What  God  hath  joined,  man  cannot  sunder."  I 
lay  thinking  what  they  could  mean.  All  at  once  I  thought  I 
knew.  Straightway  I  rose  on  the  cloudy  arm,  looked  down 
on  a  measureless  darkness  beneath  me,  and  up  on  a  great, 
dreary,  world-filled  eternity  above  me,  and  crept  along  the 
arm  towards  the  bosom  of  God. 

In  telling  my — neither  vision  nor  dream  nor  ecstacy,  I 
cannot  help  it  that  the  forms  grow  so  much  plainer  and  more 
definite  in  the  words  than  they  were  in  the  revelation.  Words 
always  give  either  too  much  or  too  little  shape :  when  you 
want  to  be  definite,  you  find  your  words  clumsy  and  blunt ; 
when  you  want  them  for  a  vague  shadowy  image,  you 
straightway  find  them  give  a  sharp  and  impertinent  outline, 
refusing  to  lend  themselves  to  your  undefined  though  vivid 
thought.     Forms  themselves  are  hard  enough  to  manage,  but 


THE   Df'.WN.  465 

words  are  unmanageable.     I  must  therefore  trust  to  the  heart 
of  my  reader. 

I  crept  into  the  bosom  of  God,  and  along  a  great  cloudy 
peace,  which  I  could  not  understand,  for  it  did  not  yet  enter 
into  me.  At  length  I  came  to  the  heart  of  God,  and  through 
that  my  journey  lay.  The  moment  I  entered  it,  the  great 
peace  appeared  to  enter  mine,  and  I  began  to  understand  it. 
Something  melted  in  my  heart,  and  for  a  moment  I  thought 
I  was  dying,  but  I  found  I  was  being  born  again.  My  heart 
was  empty  of  its  old  selfishness,  and  I  loved  Mary  tenfold,  nor 
longer  in  the  least  for  my  own  sake,  but  all  for  her  loveliness. 
The  same  moment  I  knew  that  the  heart  of  God  was  a  bridge, 
along  which  I  was  crossing  the  unspeakable  eternal  gulf  that 
divided  Mary  and  me.  At  length,  somehow,  I  know  not  how, 
somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  I  was  where  she  was.  She 
knew  nothing  of  my  presence,  turned  neither  face  nor  eye  to 
meet  me,  stretched  out  no  hand  to  give  me  the  welcome  of 
even  a  friend,  and  yet  I  not  only  knew,  but  felt  that  she  was 
mine.  I  wanted  nothing  from  her  ;  desired  the  presence  of 
her  loveliness  only  that  I  might  know  it ;  hung  about  her  life 
as  the  butterfly  over  the  flower  he  loves ;  was  satisfied  that 
she  should  he.  I  had  left  myself  behind  in  the  heart  of  God, 
and  now  I  was  a  pure  essence,  fit  to  rejoice  in  the  essential. 
But  alas !  my  whole  being  was  not  yet  subject  to  its  best.  I 
began  to  long  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  her  besides — I 
foolishly  said  beyond  loving  her.  Back  rushed  my  old  self  in 
the  selfish  thought :    Some  day — will  she  not  know — and  at 

least ?     That  moment  the  vision  vanished.     I  was  tossed 

— ah  !  let  me  hope,  only  to  the  other  arm  of  God — but  I  lay 
in  torture  yet  again.  For  a  man  may  see  visions  manifold, 
and  believe  them  all  ;  and  yet  his  faith  shall  not  save  him ; 
something  more  is  needed — he  must  have  that  presence  of  God 
in  his  soul,  of  which  the  Son  of  Man  spoke,  saying  :  "  If  a 
man  love  me,  he  will  keep  my  words :  and  my  Father  will  love 
him,  and  we  will  come  unto  him,  and  make  our  abode  with 
him."  God  in  him,  he  will  be  able  to  love  for  very  love's 
sake ;  God  not  in  him,  his  best  love  will  die  into  selfishness. 
30 


46(i  WILFRID   CUMBEKMEDE. 


CHAPTER   LX. 

MY   GREAT-GRANDMOTHER. 

The  morning  then  which  had  thus  dawned  upon  me,  was 
often  over-clouded  heavily.  Yet  it  was  the  morning  and  not 
the  night ;  and  one  of  the  strongest  proofs  that  it  was  the 
morning,  lay  in  this,  that  again  I  could  think  in  verse. 

One  day,  after  an  hour  or  two  of  bitterness,  I  wrote  the 
following.  A  man's  trouble  must  have  receded  from  him  a 
little  for  the  moment,  if  he  describes  any  shape  in  it,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  give  it  form  in  words.  I  set  it  down  with  no  hope 
of  better  than  the  vaguest  sympathy.  There  came  no  music 
with  this  one. 

If  it  be  that  a  man  and  a  woman 

Are  made  for  no  mutual  grief; 
That  each  gives  the  pain  to  some  other, 

And  neither  can  give  the  relief; 

If  thus  the  chain  of  the  world 

Is  tied  round  the  holy  feet, 
I  scorn  to  shrink  from  facing 

What  my  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

But  I  cry  when  the  wolf  is  tearing 

At  the  core  of  my  heart  as  now : 
When  I  was  the  man  to  be  tortured^ 

Why  should  the  woman  be  thou  ? 

I  am  not  so  ready  to  sink  from  the  lofty  into  the  abject  now. 
If  at  times  I  yet  feel  that  the  w^hole  creation  is  groaning  and 
travailing,  I  know  what  it  is  for — its  redemption  from  the 
dominion  of  its  own  death  into  that  sole  liberty  which  comes 
only  of  being  filled  and  eternally  possessed  by  God  himself,  its 
source  and  its  life. 

And  now  I  found  also  that  my  heart  began  to  be  moved 


MY   GREAT-GRANDMOTHER.  467 

with  a  compassion  towards  my  fellows  such  as  I  had  never 
before  experienced.  I  shall  best  convey  what  I  mean  by 
ti'anscribing  another  little  poem  I  wrote  about  the  same  time. 

Once  I  sat  on  a  crimson  thrune. 

And  I  held  the  world  in  fee ; 
Below  me  I  heard  my  brothers  moan. 

And  I  bent  me  down  to  see; — 

Lovingly  bent  and  looked  on  them, 

But  /  had  no  inward  pain  ; 
I  sat  in  the  heart  of  my  ruby  gem. 

Like  a  rainbow  without  the  rain. 

My  throne  is  vanished  j  helpless  I  lie 

At  the  foot  of  its  broken  stair; 
And  the  sorrows  of  all  humanity 

Through  my  heart  make  a  thoroughfare. 

Let  such  things  rest  for  a  while:  I  have  now  to  relate 
another  incident — strange  enough,  but  by  no  means  solitary 
in  the  records  of  human  experience.  My  reader  will  probably 
think  that  of  dreams  and  visions  there  has  already  been  more 
than  enough ;  but  perhaps  she  will  kindly  remember  that  at 
this  time  I  had  no  outer  life  at  all.  Whatever  bore  to  me  the 
look  of  existence  was  within  me.  All  my  days  the  tendency 
had  been  to  an  undue  predominance  of  thought  over  action, 
and  now  that  the  springs  of  action  were  for  a  time  dried  up, 
what  wonder  was  it  if  thought,  lording  it  alone,  should  assume 
a  reality  beyond  its  right?  Hence  the  life  of  the  day  was 
prolonged  into  the  night ;  nor  was  there  other  than  a  small 
difference  in  their  conditions,  beyond  the  fact  that  their  con- 
trast of  outer  things  was  removed  in  sleep ;  whence  the  shapes 
which  the  waking  thought  had  assumed,  had  space  and  oppor- 
tunity, as  it  were,  to  thicken  before  the  mental  eye  until  they 
became  dreams  and  visions. 

But  concerning  what  I  am  about  to  relate  I  shall  offer  no 
theory.  Such  mere  operation  of  my  own  thoughts  may  be 
sufficient  to  account  for  it :  I  would  only  ask — does  any  one 
know  what  the  mere  operation  of  his  own  thoughts  signifies  ? 
I  cannot  isolate  myself,  especially  in  those  moments  when  the 


468  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

individual  will  is  less  awake,  fr(3in  the  ocean  of  life  and  thought 
which  not  only  surrounds  me,  but  on  which  I  am  in  a  sense 
one  of  the  floating  bubbles. 

I  was  asleep,  but  I  thought  I  lay  awake  in  bed — in  the  room 
where  I  still  slept — that  which  had  been  my  grannie's. — It 
was  dark  midnight,  and  the  wind  was  howling  about  the  gable 
and  in  the  chimneys.  The  door  opened,  and  some  one  entered. 
By  tlie  lamp  she  carried  I  knew  my  great-grandmother — just 
as  she  looked  in  life,  only  that  now  the  walked  upright  and 
with  ease.  That  I  was  dreaming  is  plain  from  the  fact  that  I 
felt  no  surprise  at  seeing  her. 

"  Wilfrid,  come  w'ith  me,"  she  said,  approaching  the  bedside. 
"  Eise." 

I  obeyed  like  a  child. 

"  Put  your  cloak  on,"  she  continued,  "  It  is  a  stormy  mid- 
night, but  we  have  not  so  far  to  go  as  you  may  think." 

"  I  think  nothing,  grannie,"  I  said.  "I  do  not  know  where 
you  want  to  take  me." 

"  Come  and  see  then,  my  son.  You  must  at  last  learn  what 
has  been  kept  from  you  far  too  long." 

As  she  spoke,  she  led  the  way  down  the  stair,  through  the 
kitchen,  and  out  into  the  dark  night.  I  remember  the  wind 
blowing  my  cloak  about,  but  I  remember  nothing  more  until 
I  found  myself  in  the  winding  hazel-walled  lane,  leading  to 
TJmberden  Church.  My  grannie  was  leading  me  by  one 
withered  hand ;  in  the  other  she  held  the  lamp,  over  the 
flame  of  which  the  wind  had  no  power.  She  led  me  into  the 
churchyard,  took  the  key  from  under  the  tombstone,  unlocked 
the  door  of  the  church,  put  the  lamp  into  my  hand,  pushed 
me  gently  in,  and  shut  the  door  behind  me.  I  walked  to  the 
vestry,  and  set  the  lamp  on  the  desk,  with  a  vague  feeling  that 
I  had  been  there  before,  and  that  I  had  now  to  do  something 
at  this  desk.  Above  it  I  caught  sight  of  the  row  of  vellum- 
bound  books,  and  remembered  that  one  of  them  contained 
something  of  importance  to  me.  I  took  it  down.  The 
moment  I  opened  it,  I  remembered  with  distinctness  the  fatal 
discrepancy  in  the  entry  of  my  grannie's  marriage.     I  found 


MY   GREAT-GRANDMOTHER.  469 

the  |)lace :  to  my  astonishment  the  date  of  the  year  was  now 
the  same  as  that  on  the  preceding  page — 1747.  That  instant  I 
awoke  in  the  first  gush  of  the  sunrise. 

I  could  not  help  feeling  even  a  little  excited  by  my  dream, 
and  the  impression  of  it  grew  upon  me :  I  wanted  to  see  the 
book  again.  I  could  not  rest.  Something  seemed  constantly 
urging  me  to  go  and  look  at  it.  Half  to  get  the  thing  out  of 
my  head,  I  sent  Styles  to  fetch  Lilith,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  the  final  assurance  of  my  loss,  mounted  her.  I  rode  for 
Umbcrden  Church. 

It  was  long  after  noon  before  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  and 
when,  having  tied  Lilith  to  the  gate,  I  entered  the  church,  one 
red  ray  from  the  setting  sun  was  nestling  in  the  very  roof. 
Knowing  what  I  should  find,  yet  wishing  to  see  it  again,  I 
walked  across  to  the  vestry,  feeling  rather  uncomfortable  at . 
the  thought  of  prying  thus  alone  into  the  parish  register. 

I  could  almost  have  persuaded  myself  that  was  I  dreaming 
still ;  and  in  looking  back,  I  can  hardly  in  my  mind  separate 
the  dreaming  from  the  waking  visit. 

Of  course  I  found  just  what  I  had  expected — 1748,  not 
1747 — at  the  top  of  the  page,  and  was  about  to  replace  the 
register,  when  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  that,  if  the  dream 
had  been  potent  enough  to  bring  me  hither,  it  might  yet  mean 
something.  I  lifted  the  cover  again.  There  the  entry  stood 
undeniably  plain.  This  time,  however,  I  noted  two  other  little 
facts  concerning  it. 

I  will  just  remind  my  reader  that  the  entry  was  crushed  in 
between  the  date  of  the  year  and  the  next  entry — plainly 
enough  to  the  eye ;  and  that  there  was  no  attestation  to  the 
entries  of  1747.  The  first  additional  fact — and  clearly  an 
important  one — was,  that  in  the  summing  up  of  1748,  before 
the  signature,  which  stood  near  the  bottom  of  the  cover,  a 
figure  had  been  altered.  Originally  it  stood :  "  In  all  six 
couple,"  but  the  six  had  been  altered  to  a  seven — correspond- 
ing with  the  actual  number.  This  appeared  proof  positive 
that  the  first  entry  on  the  cover  was  a  forged  insertion.  And 
how  clumsily  it  had  been  managed ! 


470  WILFRID    CUMBERMEDE. 

*'  What  could  my  granule  be  about?"  I  said  to  myself. 

It  never  Occurred  to  me  then  that  it  might  have  been 
intended  to  look  like  a  forgery. 

Still  I  kept  staring  at  it,  as  if  by  very  force  of  staring  I 
could  tind  out  something.  There  -was  not  the  slightest  sign  of 
erasure  or  alteration  beyond  the  instance  I  have  mentioned. 
Yet — and  here  was  my  second  note — when  I  comi)ared  the 
whole  of  the  writing  on  the  cover  with  the  writing  on  the  pre- 
ceding page,  though  it  seemed  the  same  hand,  it  seemed  to 
have  got  stiffer  and  shakier,  as  if  the  writer  had  grown  old 
between.  Finding  nothing  very  suggestive  in  this,  however,  I 
fell  into  a  dreamy  mood,  watching  the  red  light,  as  it  faded, 
up  in  the  old,  dark,  distorted  roof  of  the  desolate  church — 
with  my  hand  lying  on  the  book. 

I  have  always  had  a  bad  habit  of  pulling  and  scratching  at 
any  knot  or  roughness  in  the  paper  of  the  book  I  happen  to 
be  reading ;  and  now,  almost  unconsciously,  with  my  forefinger 
I  was  pulling  at  an  edge  of  parchment  which  projected  from 
the  joint  of  the  cover.  "When  I  came  to  myself  and  pro- 
ceeded to  close  the  book,  I  found  it  would  not  shut  properly 
because  of  a  piece  which  I  had  curled  up.  Seeking  to  restore 
it  to  its  former  position,  I  fancied  I  saw  a  line  or  edge  running 
all  down  the  joint,  and  looking  closer  saw  that  these  last 
entries  in  place  of  being  upon  a  leaf  of  the  book  pasted  to  the 
cover  in  order  to  strengthen  the  binding,  as  I  had  supposed, 
were  indeed  upon  a  leaf  which  was  pasted  to  the  cover,  but 
one  not  otherwise  connected  with  the  volume. 

I  now  began  to  feel  a  more  lively  interest  in  the  behaviour 
of  my  dream-grannie.  Here  might  lie  something  to  explain 
the  hitherto  inexplicable.  I  proceeded  to  pull  the  leaf  gently 
away.  It  was  of  parchment,  much  thinner  than  the  others, 
which  were  of  vellum.  I  had  withdrawn  only  a  small  portion 
when  I  saw  there  was  writing  under  it.  My  heart  began  to 
beat  faster.  But  I  would  not  be  rash.  My  old  experience 
with  parchment  in  the  mending  of  my  uncle's  books  came  to 
my  aid.  If  I  pulled  at  the  dry  skin  as  I  had  been  doing,  I 
might  not  only  damage  it,  but  destroy  the  writing  under  it.     I 


MY  GREAT-GRANDMOTHER.  471 

could  do  nothing  without  water,  and  I  did  not  know  where  to 
find  any.  It  would  be  better  to  ride  to  the  village  of  Gastford, 
somev/here  about  two  miles  off,  put  up  there,  and  arrange  for 
future  proceedings. 

I  did  not  know  the  way,  and  for  a  long  time  could  see  no 
one  to  ask.  The  consequence  was  that  I  made  a  wide  round, 
and  it  was  nearly  dark  before  I  reached  the  village.  I  thought 
it  better  for  the  present  to  feed  Lilith,  and  then  make  the  best 
of  my  way  home. 

The  next  evening — I  felt  so  like  a  thief  that  I  sought  the 
thievish  security  of  the  night — having  provided  myself 
with  what  was  necessary,  and  borrowed  a  horse  for  Styles,  I  set 
out  again. 


472  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

THE    PARISH    REGISTER. 

The  sky  clouded  as  we  went ;  it  grew  very  dark,  and  the 
wind  began  to  blow.  It  threatened  a  storm.  I  told  Styles  a 
little  of  what  I  was  about — ^just  enough  to  impress  on  him  the 
necessity  for  prudence.  The  wind  n creased,  and  by  the  time 
we  gained  the  copse,  it  was  roaring,  and  the  slender  hazels 
bending  like  a  field  of  corn. 

"  You  will  have  enough  to  do  with  two  horses,"  I  said. 

"  I  don't  mind  it,  sir,"  Styles  answered.  "  A  word  from  me 
will  quiet  Miss  Lilith  ;  and  for  the  other,  I've  known  him 
pretty  well  for  two  years  past." 

I  left  them  tolerably  sheltered  in  the  winding  lane,  and 
betook  myself  alone  to  the  church.  Cautiously  I  opened  the 
door,  and  felt  my  way  from  pew  to  pew,  for  it  was  quite  dark. 
I  could  just  distinguish  the  windows  from  the  walls,  and 
nothing  more.  As  soon  as  I  reached  the  vestry,  I  struck  a 
light,  got  down  the  volume,  and  proceeded  to  moisten  the 
parchment  with  a  wet  sponge.  For  some  time  the  water  made 
little  impression  on  the  old  parchment,  of  which  but  one  side 
could  be  exposed  to  its  influences,  and  I  began  to  fear  I  should 
be  much  longer  in  gaining  my  end  than  I  had  expected.  The 
wind  roared  and  howled  about  the  trembling  church,  which 
seemed  too  weak  with  age  to  resist  such  an  onslaught ;  but 
when  at  length  the  skin  began  to  grow  soft  and  yield  to  my 
gentle  eflTorts  at  removal,  I  became  far  too  much  absorbed  in 
the  simple  operation,  which  had  to  be  performed  with  all  the 
gentleness  and  nicety  of  a  surgical  one  to  heed  the  uproar 
about  me.  Slowly  the  glutinous  adhesion  gave  way,  and 
slowly  the  writing  revealed  itself.  In  mingled  hope  and  doubt 
I  restrained  my  curiosity ;  and  as  one  teases  oneself  sometimes 
by  dallying  with  a  letter  of  the  greatest  interest,  not  until  I 


THE   PARISH   REGISTER.  473 

had  folded  down  the  parchment  clear  of  what  was  manifestly 
^n  entry,  did  I  bring  my  candle  close  to  it,  and  set  myself  to 
read  it.  Then  indeed  I  found  I  had  reason  to  regard  with 
respect  the  dream  which  had  brought  me  thither. 

Right  under  the  1748  of  the  parchment,  stood  on  the  vellum 
cover  1747.  Then  followed  the  usual  blank,  and  then  came 
an  entry  corresponding  word  for  word  with  the  other  entry  of 
my  great  grandfather  and  mother's  marriage.  In  all  proba- 
bility Moldwarp  Hall  was  mine !  Little  as  it  could  do  for  me 
now,  I  confess  to  a  keen  pang  of  pleasure  at  the  thought. 

Meantime,  I  followed  out  my  investigation,  and  gradually 
stripped  the  parchment  off  the  vellum  to  within  a  couple  of 
inches  of  the  bottom  of  the  cover.  The  result  of  knowledge 
was  as  follows : 

Next  to  the  entry  of  the  now  hardly  hypothetical  marriage 
of  my  ancestors,  stood  the  summing  up  of  the  marriages  of 
1747,  with  the  signature  of  the  rector.  I  paused,  and,  turning 
back,  counted  them.  Including  that  in  which  alone  I  was  in- 
terested, I  found  the  number  given  correct.  Next  came  by  it- 
self the  figures  1748,  and  then  a  few  more  entries,  followed  by 
the  usual  summing  up  and  signature  of  the  rector.  From  this 
I  turned  to  the  leaf  of  parchment :  there  was  a  difference : 
upon  the  latter  the  sum  was  six,  altered  to  seven ;  on  the  for- 
mer it  was  five.  This  of  course  suggested  further  search :  I 
soon  found  where  the  difference  indicated  lay. 

As  the  entry  of  tlie  marriage  was,  on  the  forged  leaf  shifted 
up  close  to  the  forged  1748,  and  as  the  summing  and  signature 
had  to  be  omitted,  because  they  belonged  to  the  end  of  1747,  a 
blank  would  have  been  left,  and  the  writing  below  would  have 
shone  through  and  attracted  attention,  revealing  the  forgery 
of  the  whole,  instead  of  that  of  the  part  only  which  was  in- 
tended to  look  a  forgery.  To  prevent  this,  an  altogether  ficti- 
tious entry  had  been  made — over  the  summing  and  signature. 
This,  with  the  genuine  entries  faithfully  copied,  made  of  the 
five,  six,  which  the  forger  had  written  and  then  blotted  into  a 
seven,  intending  to  expose  the  entry  of  my  ancestors'  marriage 
as  a  forgery,  while  the  rest  of  the  year's  register  should  look 


474  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

genuine.  It  took  me  some  little  trouble  to  clear  it  all  up  to 
my  own  mind,  but  by  degrees  everything  settled  into  its  place, 
and  assumed  an  intelligible  shape  in  virtue  of  its  position. 

With  my  many  speculations  as  to  why  the  mechanism  of 
the  forgery  had  assumed  this  shape,  I  need  not  trouble  my 
reader.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  on  more  than  one  supposition,  I 
can  account  for  it  satisfactorily  to  myself.  One  other  remark 
only  will  I  make  concerning  it :  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  an  old 
forgery.  One  after  another  those  immediately  concerned  in  it 
had  died,  and  there  the  falsehood  lurked — in  latent  power — 
inoperative  until  my  second  visit  to  Umberden  Church.  But 
what  differences  might  there  not  have  been  had  it  not  started 
into  activity  for  the  brief  space  betwixt  then  and  my  sorrow  ? 

I  left  the  parchment  still  attached  to  the  cover  at  the  bottom, 
and,  laying  a  sheet  of  paper  between  the  formerly  adhering 
surfaces,  lest  they  should  again  adhere  closed  and  replaced  the 
volume.  Then,  looking  at  my  watch,  I  found  that,  instead  of 
an  hour  as  I  had  supposed,  I  had  been  in  the  church  three 
hours.  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  too  late  for  anything 
further  that  night. 

AYhen  I  came  out,  the  sky  was  clear  and  the  stars  were  shi- 
nins:.  The  storm  had  blown  over.  Much  rain  had  fallen.  But 
when  the  wind  ceased  or  the  rain  began,  I  had  no  recollection : 
the  storm  had  vanished  altogether  from  my  consciousness.  I 
found  Styles  where  I  had  left  him,  smoking  his  pipe  and  lean- 
ing against  Lilith,  who — I  cannot  call  her  which — was  feeding 
on  the  fine  grass  of  the  lane.  The  horse,  he  had  picketed  near. 
We  mounted  and  rode  home. 

The  next  thing  was  to  see  the  rector  of  Umberden.  He 
lived  in  his  other  parish,  and  thither  I  rode  the  following  day  to 
call  upon  him.  I  found  him  an  old  gentleman,  of  the  squire- 
type  of  rector.  As  soon  as  he  heard  my  name,  he  seemed  to 
know  who  I  was,  and  at  once  showed  himself  hospitable. 

I  told  him  that  I  came  to  him  as  I  might,  were  I  a  Catholic, 
to  a  father-confessor.     This  startled  him  a  little. 

"  Don't  tell  me  anything  I  ought  not  to  keep  secret,"  he  said; 
and  it  gave  me  confidence  in  him  at  once. 


THE   PARISH   REGISTER.  475 

"  I  will  not,"  I  returned.  "  The  secret  is  purely  my  own. 
Whatever  crime  there  is  in  it,  was  past  punishment  long  before 
I  was  born ;  and  it  was  committed  against,  not  by  my  family. 
But  it  is  rather  a  long  story,  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  tedious." 

He  assured  me  of  his  perfect  leisure. 

I  told  him  everything,  from  my  earliest  memory,  which  bore 
on  the  discovery  I  had  at  length  made.  He  soon  showed  signs 
of  interest;  and  when  I  had  ended  the  tale  with  the  facts  of 
the  preceding  night,  he  silently  rose  and  walked  about  the 
room.     After  a  few  moments,  he  said : 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  do,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  answered,  "so  long  as  Sir  Giles  is  alive.  He 
was  kind  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy." 

He  came  up  behind  me  when  I  was  seated,  and  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  my  head ;  then,  without  a  word,  resumed  his  walk. 

"  And  if  you  survive  him,  what  then  ?" 

"  Then  I  must  be  guided  partly  by  circumstances,"  I  said. 

*'  And  what  do  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to  the  church,  and  see  the  book, 
that,  in  case  of  anything  happening  to  it,  you  may  be  a  wit- 
ness concerning  its  previous  contents." 

"  I  am  too  old  to  be  the  only  witness,"  he  said.  "  You 
ought  to  have  several  of  your  own  age." 

"  I  Avant  as  few  to  know  the  secret  as  may  be,"  I  answered. 

"  You  should  have  your  lawyer  one  of  them." 

"He  would  never  leave  me  alone  about  it,"  I  replied;  "and 
positively  I  shall  take  no  measures  at  present.  Some  day  I 
hope  to  punish  him  for  deserting  me  as  he  did." 

For  I  had  told  him  how  Mr.  Coningham  had  behaved. 

"  Revenge,  Mr.  Cumbermede  ?" 

"  Not  a  serious  one.  All  the  punishment  I  hope  to  give 
him  is  but  to  show  him  the  fact  of  the  case,  and  leave  him  to 
feel  as  he  may  about  it." 

"  There  can't  be  much  harm  in  that." 

He  reflected  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said : 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  will  be  best.  We  shall  go  and  see 
the  book  together.     I  will  make  an  extract  of  both  entries. 


476  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

and  give  a  description  of  the  state  of  the  volume,  with  an 
account  of  how  the  second  entry — or  more  properly  the  first 
— came  to  be  discovered.  This  I  shall  sign  in  the  presence  of 
two  witnesses,  who  need  know  nothing  of  the  contents  of  tho 
paper.     Of  that  you  shall  yourself  take  charge." 

We  went  together  to  the  church.  The  old  man,  after 
making  a  good  many  objections,  was  at  length  satisfied,  and 
made  notes  for  his  paper.  He  started  the  question  whether  it 
would  not  be  better  to  secure  that  volume  at  least  under  lock 
and  key.  For  this  I  thought  there  was  no  occasion — that  in 
fact  it  was  safer  where  it  was,  and  more  certain  of  being  forth- 
coming when  wanted.  I  did  suggest  that  the  key  of  the 
church  might  be  deposited  in  a  place  of  safety ;  but  he 
ansvvered  that  it  had  been  kept  there  ever  since  he  came  to  the 
living  forty  years  ago,  and  for  how  long  before  that,  he  could 
not  tell ;  and  so  a  change  would  attract  attention,  and  possi- 
bly make  some  talk  in  the  parish,  which  had  better  be 
avoided. 

Before  the  end  of  the  week,  he  had  his  document  ready. 
He  signed  it  in  my  presence,  and  in  that  of  two  of  his  pari- 
shioners, who  as  witnesses  appended  their  names  and  abodes. 
I  have  it  now  in  my  possession.  I  shall  inclose  it,  with  my 
great-grandfather  and  mother's  letters — and  something  besides 
— in  the  packet  containing  this  history. 

That  same  week,  Sir  Giles  Brotherton  died. 


A  FOOJ^liSH  TIUUMPH.  477 


CHAPTER   LXII. 
% 

A  FOOLISH  TRIUMPH. 

I  SHOULD  have  now  laid  claim  to  my  property,  but  for 
Mary.  To  turn  Sir  Geoffrey  with  his  mother  and  sister  out 
of  it,  would  have  caused  me  little  compunction,  for  they 
would  still  be  rich  enough ;  I  confess  indeed  it  would  have 
given  me  satisfaction.  Nor  could  I  say  what  real  hurt  of  any 
kind  it  would  occasion  to  Mary ;  and  if  I  were  writing  for  the 
public,  instead  of  my  one  reader,  I  know  how  foolishly 
incredible  it  must  appear  that  for  her  sake  I  should  forego 
such  claims.  She  would,  however,  I  trust,  have  been  able  to 
believe  it  without  the  proofs  which  I  intend  to  give  her.  The 
fact  was  simply  this :  I  could  not  even  for  my  own  sake  bear 
the  thought  of  taking,  in  any  manner  or  degree,  a  position  if 
but  apparently  antagonistic  to  her.  My  enemy  was  her  hus- 
band :  he  should  reap  the  advantage  of  being  her  husband ; 
for  her  sake  he  should  for  the  present  retain  what  was  mine. 
So  long  as  there  should  be  no  reason  to  fear  his  adopting  a 
different  policy  from  his  father's  in  respect  of  his  tenants,  I 
felt  myself  at  liberty  to  leave  things  as  they  were ;  for  Sir 
Giles  had  been  a  good  landlord,  and  I  knew  the  son  was 
regarded  with  favor  in  the  county.  Were  he  to  turn  out 
unjust  or  oppressive,  however,  then  duty  on  my  part  would 
come  in.  But  I  must  also  remind  my  reader  that  I  had  no 
love  for  affairs ;  that  I  had  an  income  perfectly  sufficient  for 
my  wants ;  that,  both  from  my  habits  of  thought  and  from  my 
sufferings,  my  regard  was  upon  life  itself— was  indeed  so  far 
from  being  confined  to  this  chrysalid  beginning  thereof,  that  I 
had  lost  all  interest  in  this  world  save  as  the  porch  to  the 
house  of  life.  And,  should  I  ever  meet  her  again,  in  any 
possible  future  of  being,  how  much  rather  would  I  not  stand 


478  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 

before  lier  as  one  wlio  had  been  even  Quixotic  for  her  sake — 
as  one  who  for  a  hairVbroadth  of  her  interest  had  felt  the 
sacrifice  of  a  fortune  a  merely  natural  movement  of  his  life ! 
She  would  then  know  not  merely  that  I  was  true  to  her,  but 
that  I  had  been  true  in  what  I  professed  to  believe  when  I 
sought  her  favor.  And  if  it  had  been  a  pleasure  to  me — call 
it  a  weakness,  and  I  will  not  oppose  the  impeachment ; — call 
it  self-pity,  and  I  will  confess  to  that  as  having  a  share  in  it ; 
but,  if  it  had  been  a  shadowy  pleasure  to  me  to  fancy  I 
suffered  for  her  sake,  my  present  resolution,  while  it  did  not 
add  the  weight  of  a  feather  to  my  suffering,  did  yet  give  me  a 
similar  vague  satisfaction. 

I  must  also  confess  to  a  certain  satisfaction  in  feeling  that  I 
had  power  over  my  enemy — power  of  making  him  feel  my 
power — power  of  vindicating  my  character  against  him  as  well, 
seeing  one  who  could  thus  abstain  from  asserting  his  own  rights 
could  hardly  have  been  one  to  invade  the  rights  of  another ; 
but  the  enjoyment  of  this  consciousness  appeared  to  depend  on 
my  silence :  if  I  broke  that,  the  strength  would  depart  from 
me  ;  but  while  I  held  my  peace,  I  held  my  foe  in  an  invisible 
mesh.  I  half  deluded  myself  into  fancying  that  while  I  kept 
my  power  over  him  unexercised,  I  retained  a  sort  of  pledge 
for  his  conduct  to  Mary,  of  which  I  was  more  than  doubtful ; 
for  a  man  wdth  such  antecedents  as  his,  a  man  who  had  been 
capable  of  behaving  as  he  had  behaved  to  Charley,  was  less 
than  likely  to  be  true  to  his  wife  :  he  was  less  than  likely  to 
treat  the  sister  as  a  lady,  who  to  the  brother  had  been  a  trai- 
torous seducer. 

I  have  now  to  confess  a  fault  as  well  as  an  imprudence — 
punished,  I  believe  in  the  results. 

The  behaviour  of  Mr.  Coningham  still  rankled  a  little  in 
my  bosom.  From  Geoffrey  I  had  never  looked  for  anything 
but  evil ;  of  Mr.  Coningham  I  had  expected  differently,  and  I 
began  to  meditate  the  revenge  of  holding  him  up  to  himself;  I 
would  punish  him  in  a  manner  which,  with  his  confidence  in 
his  business  faculty,  he  must  feel ;  I  would  simply  show  him 
how  the  precipitation  of  selfish  disappointment  had  led  him. 


A    FOOLISH   TRIUMPH.  479 

astray,  and  frustrated  his  designs.  For  if  he  had  given  even 
a  decent  attention  to  the  matter,  he  would  have  found  in  the 
forgery  itself  hints  sufficient  to  suggest  the  desirableness  of 
further  investigation. 

I  had  not  however  concluded  upon  anything,  when  one  day 
I  accidentally  met  him,  and  we  had  a  little  talk  about  business, 
for  he  continued  to  look  after  the  rent  of  my  field.  He 
informed  me  that  Sir  Geoffrey  Brotherton  had  been  doing  all 
he  could  to  get  even  temporary  possession  of  the  park,  as  we 
called  it ;  and,  although  I  said  nothing  of  it  to  Mr.  Coning- 
ham,  my  suspicion  is,  that,  had  he  succeeded,  he  would,  at  the 
risk  of  a  law-suit  in  which  he  would  certainly  have  been  cast, 
have  ploughed  it  up.  He  told  me  also  that  Clara  was  in  poor 
health ;  she  who  had  looked  as  if  no  blight  could  ever  touch 
her,  had  broken  down  utterly.  The  shadow  of  her  sorrow  was 
plain  enough  on  the  face  of  her  father,  and  his  confident  man- 
ner had  a  little  yielded,  although  he  was  the  old  man  still. 
His  father  had  died  a  little  before  Sir  Giles.  The  new  baronet 
had  not  offered  him  the  succession. 

I  asked  him  to  go  with  me  yet  once  more  to  Umberden 
Church — for  I  wanted  to  show  him  something  he  had  over- 
looked in  the  register — not,  I  said,  that  it  would  be  of  the 
slightest  furtherance  to  his  former  hopes.  He  agreed  at  once, 
already  a  little  ashamed  perhaps  of  the  way  in  which  he  had 
abandoned  me.  Before  we  parted  we  made  an  appointment  to 
meet  at  the  church. 

We  w^ent  at  once  to  the  vestry.  I  took  down  the  volume, 
and  laid  it  before  him.  He  opened  it,  with  a  curious  look  at 
me  first.  But  the  moment  he  lifted  the  cover,  its  condition  at 
once  attracted  and  as  instantly  riveted  his  attention.  He 
gave  me  one  glance  more,  in  which  questions  and  remarks  and 
exclamations  numberless  lay  in  embryo ;  then  turning  to  the 
book,  was  presently  absorbed,  first  in  reading  the  genuine 
entry,  next  in  comparing  it  with  the  forged  one. 

"  Right  after  all !"  he  exclaimed  at  length. 

"  In  what  ?"  I  asked.  "  In  dropping  me  without  a  word  as 
if  I  had  been  an  impostor  ?     In  forgetting  that  you  yourself 


480  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

had  raised  in  me  the  hopes  whose  discomfiture  you  took  as  a 
personal  iujury  ?" 

"  My  dear  sir !"  he  stammered  in  an  expostulatory  tone, 
"  you  must  make  allowance.  It  was  a  tremendous  disappoint- 
ment to  me." 

"  I  cannot  say  I  felt  it  quite  so  much  myself,  but  at  least 
you  owed  me  an  apology  for  having  misled  me." 

"  I  had  not  misled  you,"  he  retorted  angrily,  pointing  to  the 
register, — "  There !" 

"  You  left  me  to  find  that  out  though.  You  took  no  further 
pains  in  the  matter." 

"How  did  you  find  it  out?"  he  asked,  clutching  at  a 
change  in  the  tone  of  the  conversation. 

I  said  nothing  of  my  dream,  but  I  told  him  everything  else 
concerning  the  discovery.     When  I  had  finished — 

"  It's  all  plain  sailing  now,"  he  cried.  "  There  is  not  an 
obstacle  in  the  way.  I  will  set  the  thing  in  motion  the  instant 
I  get  home. — It  will  be  a  victory  worth  achieving !"  he  added, 
rubbing  his  hands. 

"Mr.  Coningham,  I  have  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
moving  in  the  matter,"  I  said. 

His  face  fell. 

"  You  do  not  mean — when  you  hold  them  in  your  very  hands 
— to  throw  away  every  advantage  of  birth  and  fortune,  and  be 
a  nobody  in  the  world  ?" 

"  Infinite  advantages  of  the  kind  you  mean,  ]\Ir.  Coningham, 
could  make  me  not  one  whit  more  than  I  am  :  they  might 
make  me  less." 

"  Come,  come,"  he  expostulated ;  "  you  must  not  allow  dis- 
appointment to  upset  your  judgment  of  things." 

"  My  judgment  of  things  lies  deeper  than  any  disappoint- 
ment I  have  yet  had,"  I  replied.  "  My  uncle's  teaching  has 
at  last  begun  to  bear  fruit  in  me." 

"  Your  uncle  was  a  fool !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  But  for  my  uncle's  sake,  I  would  knock  you  down  for 
daring  to  couple  such  a  word  with  /u'm." 

He  turned  on  me  with  a  sneer.    His  eyes  had  receded  in  his 


A    FOOLISH   TRIUMPH.  481 

head,  and  in  liis  rage  he  grinned.  The  old  ape-face,  which  had 
lurked  in  my  memory  ever  since  the  time  I  first  saw  him,  came 
out  so  plainly  that  I  started:  the  child  had  read  his  face 
aright!  the  following  judgment  of  the  man  had  been  wrong  ! 
the  child's  fear  had  not  imprinted  a  false  eidolon  upon  the 
growing  brain. 

"  What  right  had  you,"  he  said,  "  to  bring  me  all  this  way 
for  such  tomfoolery  ?" 

"I  told  you  it  would  not  further  your  wishes.  But 
who  brought  me  here  for  nothing  first?"  I  added,  most 
foolishly. 

"I  was  myself  deceived.  I  did  not  intend  to  deceive 
you." 

"  I  know  that.  God  forbid  I  should  be  unjust  to  you.  But 
you  have  proved  to  me  that  your  friendship  was  all  a  pretence ; 
that  your  private  ends  were  all  your  object.  When  you  dis- 
covered that  I  could  not  serve  those,  you  dropped  me  like  a 
bit  of  glass  you  had  taken  for  a  diamond.  Have  you  any 
right  to  grumble  if  I  give  you  the  discipline  of  a  passing 
shame  ?" 

"  Mr.  Cumbermede,"  he  said,  through  his  teeth,  "  you  will 
repent  this." 

I  gave  him  no  answer,  and  he  left  the  church  in  haste. 
Having  replaced  the  register,  I  was  following  at  my  leisure, 
when  I  heard  sounds  that  made  me  hurry  to  the  door.  Lilith 
was  plunging  and  rearing,  and  pulling  at  the  bridle,  which  I 
had  thrown  over  one  of  the  spiked  bars  of  the  gate.  Another 
moment  and  she  must  have  broken  loose,  or  dragged  the  gate 
upon  her — more  likely  the  latter,  for  the  bridle  was  a  new  one 
with  broad  reins — when  some  frightful  injury  would  in  all  pro- 
bability have  been  the  consequence  to  herself.  But  a  word 
from  me  quieted  her,  and  she  stood  till  I  came  up.  Every 
inch  of  her  was  trembling.  I  suspected  at  once,  and  in  a 
moment  discovered  that  Mr.  Coningham  had  struck  her  with 
his  whip :  there  was  a  big  weal  on  the  fine  skin  of  her  hip  and 
across  her  croup.  She  shrunk  like  a  hurt  child  when  my  hand 
approached  the  injured  part,  but  moved  neither  hoof  nor  head. 
31 


482  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Having  patted  and  petted  and  consoled  her  a  little,  I  mounted 
and  rode  after  IMr.  Coningliam.  Nor  was  it  difficult  to  over- 
take him,  for  he  was  going  a  footpace.  He  was  stooping 
in  his  saddle,  and  when  I  drew  near,  I  saw  that  he  was  look- 
ing very  pale.  I  did  not,  however,  suspect  that  he  was  in 
pain. 

"  It  was  a  cowardly  thing  to  strike  the  poor  dumb  animal," 
I  cried. 

"  You  would  have  struck  her  yourself,"  he  answered  with  a 
curse,  "  if  she  had  broken  your  leg." 

I  rode  nearer.  I  knew  well  enough  that  she  would  not  have 
kicked  him  if  he  had  not  struck  her  first ;  and  I  could  see 
that  his  leg  was  not  broken ;  but  evidently  he  was  in  great 
sufiering. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  I  said.     "  Can  I  help  you  ?" 

"Go  to  the  devil,"  he  groaned. 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  the  answer  made  me  so  angry  that  I 
spoke  the  truth. 

"Don't  suppose  you  deceive  me,"  I  said.  "I  know  well 
enough  my  mare  did  not  kick  you  before  you  struck  her.  Then 
she  lashed  out  of  course." 

I  waited  for  no  reply,  but  turned  and  rode  back  to  the 
church  the  door  of  which,  in  my  haste,  I  had  left  open.  I 
locked  it,  replaced  the  key,  and  then  rode  quietly  home. 

But  as  I  went,  I  began  to  feel  that  I  had  done  wrong.  No 
doubt  Mr.  Coningham  deserved  it,  but  the  law  was  not  in  my 
hands.  No  man  has  a  right  to  punish  another.  Vengeance 
belongs  to  a  higher  region,  and  the  vengeance  of  God  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  the  vengeance  of  man.  However  it 
may  be  softened  with  the  name  of  retribution,  revenge  runs  into 
all  our  notions  of  justice;  and  until  we  love  purely,  so  it  must 
ever  be. 

All  I  had  gained  was  self-rebuke,  and  another  enemy. 
Having  reached  home,  I  read  the  Manual  of  Epictetus  right 
through  before  I  laid  it  down,  and,  if  it  did  not  teach  me  to 
love  my  enemies,  it  taught  me  at  least  to  be  ashamed  of  my- 
gelf.     Then  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Coningham,  saying  I  was  sorry  I 


A   FOOLISH   TRIUMPH.  ,  483 

had  spoken  to  him  as  I  did,  and  begging  him  to  let  by-goncs 
be  by-gones ;  assuring  him  that  if  ever  I  moved  in  the  matter 
of  our  difference,  he  should  be  the  first  to  whom  I  applied  for 
assistance. 

He  returned  me  no  answer. 


484  WILFRID    CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER   LXIII. 

A   COLLISION. 

And  now  came  a  dreary  time  of  reaction.  There  seemed 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do,  and  I  felt  listless  and  weary.  Some- 
thing kept  urging  me  to  get  away  and  hide  myself,  and  I  soon 
made  up  my  mind  to  yield  to  the  impulse  and  go  abroad.  My 
intention  was  to  avoid  cities,  and,  wandering  from  village  to 
village,  lay  my  soul  bare  to  the  healing  influences  of  Nature. 
As  to  any  healing  in  the  power  of  Time,  I  despised  the  old 
bald-pate  as  a  quack  who  performed  his  seeming  cures  at  the 
expense  of  the  whole  body.  The  better  cures  attributed  to  him 
are  not  his  at  all,  but  produced  by  the  operative  causes  whose 
servant  he  is.  A  thousand  holy  balms  require  his  services  for 
their  full  action,  but  they,  and  not  he,  are  the  saving  powers. 
Along  with  Time  I  ranked,  and  with  absolute  hatred  shrunk 
from — all  those  means  which  ofiered  to  cure  me  by  making  me 
forget.  From  a  child,  I  had  a  horror  of  forgetting ;  it  always 
seemed  to  me  like  a  loss  of  being,  like  a  hollow  scooped  out  of 
my  veiy  existence — almost  like  the  loss  of  identity.  At  times 
I  even  shrunk  from  going  to  sleep,  so  much  did  it  seem  like 
yielding  to  an  absolute  death — a  death  so  deep  that  the  visible 
death  is  but  a  picture  or  type  of  it.  If  I  could  have  been  sure 
of  dreaming,  it  would  have  been  difierent,  but  in  the  uncer- 
tainty it  seemed  like  consenting  to  nothingness.  That  one  who 
thus  felt  should  ever  have  been  tempted  to  suicide,  will  reveal 
how  painful  if  not  valueless  his  thoughts  and  feelings — his  con- 
scious life — must  have  grown  to  him;  and  that  the  only  thing 
which  withheld  him  from  it  should  be  the  fear  that  no  death, 
but  a  more  intense  life  might  be  the  result,  will  reveal  it  yet 
more  clearly.  That  in  that  sleep  I  might  at  least  dream — there 
was  the  rub. 

All  such  relief,  in  a  word,  as  might  come  of  a  lowering  of 


A   COLLISION.  485 

my  life,  either  physically,  morally,  or  spiritually,  I  hated,  de- 
tested, despised.  The  man  who  finds  solace  for  a  wounded 
heart  in  self-indulgence,  may  indeed  be  capable  of  angelic  vir- 
tues, but  in  the  meantime  his  conduct  is  that  of  the  devils  who 
went  into  the  swine  rather  than  be  bodiless.  The  man  w^ho 
can  thus  be  consoled  for  the  loss  of  a  woman,  could  never  have 
been  worthy  of  her,  possibly  would  not  have  remained  true  to 
her  beyond  the  first  delights  of  possession.  The  relief  to  which 
I  could  open  my  door,  must  be  such  alone  as  would  operate 
through  the  enlarging  and  elevating  of  what  I  recognized  as 
myself.  Whatever  would  make  me  greater,  so  that  my  torture, 
intensified  it  might  well  be,  should  yet  have  room  to  dash  itself 
hither  and  thither  without  injuring  the  walls  of  my  being, 
would  be  welcome.  If  I  might  become  so  great  that,  my  grief 
yet  stinging  me  to  agony,  the  infinite  I  of  me  should  remain 
pure  and  calm,  God-loving  and  man-cherishing,  then  I  should 
be  saved.  God  might  be  able  to  do  more  for  me — I  could  not 
tell :  I  looked  for  no  more.  I  would  myself  be  such  as  to  in- 
close my  pain  in  a  mighty  sphere  of  out-sj)acing  life,  in  rela- 
tion to  which  even  such  sorrow  as  mine  should  be  but  a  little 
thing.  Such  deliverance  alone,  I  say,  could  I  consent  with 
myself  to  accept,  and  such  alone,  I  believed,  would  God  offer 
me — for  such  alone  seemed  worthy  of  him,  and  such  alone 
seemed  not  unworthy  of  me. 

The  help  that  Nature  could  give  me,  I  judged  to  be  of  this 
ennobling  kind.  For  either  Nature  was  nature  in  virtue  of 
having  been  born  (nata)  of  God,  or  she  was  but  a  phantasm 
of  my  own  brain — against  which  supposition  the  nature  in  me 
protested  with  the  agony  of  a  tortured  man.  To  Nature  then 
I  would  go.  Like  the  hurt  child  who  folds  himself  in  the 
skirt  of  his  mother's  velvet  garment,  I  would  fold  myself  in 
the  robe  of  Deity. 

But  to  give  honor  and  gratitude  where  both  are  due,  I  must 
here  confess  obligation  with  a  willing  and  thankful  heart. 
The  Excursion  of  Wordsworth  was  published  ere  I  was  born, 
but  only  since  I  left  college  had  I  made  acquaintance  wath  it  ; 
so  long  does  it  take  for  the  light  of  a  new  star  to  reach  a 


486  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

distant  world  I  To  this  book  I  owe  so  much  that  to  me  it 
would  aloue  justify  the  convictiou  that  Wordsworth  will  never 
be  forgotten.  That  he  is  uo  longer  the  fashion,  militates 
nothing  against  his  reputation.  We,  the  old  ones,  hold  fast 
by  him  for  no  sentimental  reminiscence  of  the  fashion  of  our 
youth,  but  simply  because  his  humanity  has  come  into  contact 
with  ours.  The  men  of  the  new  generation  have  their  new 
loves  and  worships :  it  remains  to  be  seen  to  whom  the  worthy 
amongst  them  will  turn  long  ere  the  frosts  of  age  begin  to 
gatlier  and  the  winds  of  the  human  autumn  to  blow.  Words- 
worth will  recede  through  the  gliding  ages  until  with  the 
greater  Chaucer,  and  the  greater  Shakspeare,  and  the  greater 
Milton,  he  is  yet  a  star  in  the  constellated  crown  of 
Eno;land. 

Before  I  was  able  to  leave  home,  however,  a  new  event 
occurred. 

I  received  an  anonymous  letter,  in  a  handwriting  I  did  not 
recognize.     Its  contents  were  as  follows, — 

"  Sir. — Treachery  is  intended  you.  If  you  have  anything 
worth  watching,  watch  ity 

For  one  moment — so  few  were  the  places  in  which  through 
my  possessions  I  was  vulnerable — ^I  fancied  the  warning  might 
point  to  Lilith,  but  I  soon  dismissed  the  idea.  I  could  make 
no  inquiries,  for  it  had  been  left  an  hour  before  my  return 
from  a  stroll  by  an  unknown  messenger.  I  could  think  of 
nothing  besides  the  register,  and  if  this  was  what  my  corre- 
spondent aimed  at,  I  had  less  reason  to  be  anxious  concerning 
it,  because  of  the  attested  copy,  than  my  informant  probably 
knew.  Still  its  safety  was  far  from  being  a  matter  of  in- 
difference to  me.  I  resolved  to  ride  over  to  Umberden 
Church  and  see  if  it  was  as  I  had  left  it. 

The  twilight  was  fast  thickening  into  darkness  when  I 
entered  the  gloomy  building.  There  was  light  enough, 
however,  to  guide  my  hand  to  the  right  volume,  and  by 
carrying  it  to  the  door  I  was  able  to  satisfy  myself  that  it  was 
as  I  had  left  it. 


A    COLLISION.  V  487 

Thinking  over  the  matter  once  more  as  I  stood,  I  could  not 
lielp  wishing  that  the  book  was  out  of  danger  just  for  the 
present ;  but  there  was  hardly  a  place  in  the  bare  church 
where  it  was  possible  to  conceal  it.  At  last  I  thought  of  one 
— half  groped  my  way  to  the  pulpit,  ascended  its  creaking 
stair,  lifted  the  cushion  of  the  seat,  and  laid  the  book,  which 
was  thin,  open  in  the  middle,  and  flat  on  its  face,  under  it. 
I  then  locked  the  door,  mounted,  and  rode  off. 

It  was  now  more  than  dusk.  Lilith  was  frolicsome,  and, 
rejoicing  in  the  grass  under  her  feet,  broke  into  a  quick  canter 
along  the  noiseless,  winding  lane.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
great  shock,  and  I  lay  senseless. 

I  came  to  myself  under  the  stinging  blows  of  a  whip,  only 
afterwards  recognized  as  such  however.  I  sprung  staggering 
to  my  feet,  and  rushed  at  the  dim  form  of  an  assailant,  with 
such  a  sudden  and  I  suppose  unexpected  assault  that  he  fell 
under  me.  Had  he  not  fallen  I  should  have  had  little  chance 
with  him,  for,  as  I  now  learned  by  his  voice,  it  was  Sir 
Geoffrey  Brotherton. 

"  Thief !  Swindler !  Sneak !"  he  cried,  making  a  last 
harmless  blow  at  me  as  he  fell. 

All  the  wild  beast  in  my  nature  was  roused.  I  had  no 
weapon — not  even  a  whip,  for  Lilith  never  needed  one.  It 
was  well,  for  what  I  might  have  done,  in  the  first  rush  of 
blood  to  my  reviving  brain,  I  dare  hardly  imagine.  I  seized 
him  by  the  throat  with  such  fury  that,  though  far  the  stronger 
he  had  no  chance  as  he  lay.  I  kneeled  on  his  chest.  He 
struggled  furiously,  but  could  not  force  my  gripe  from  his 
throat.  I  soon  perceived  that  I  was  strangling  him,  and 
tightened  my  grasp.  ! 

His  efforts  were  already  growing  feebler,  when  I  became 
aware  of  a  soft  touch  apparently  trying  to  take  hold  of  my 
hair.  Glancing  up  without  relaxing  my  hold,  I  saw  the  white 
head  of  Lilith  close  to  mine.  Was  it  the  whiteness — was  it 
the  calmness  of  the  creature — I  cannot  pretend  to  account  for 
the  fact,  but  the  same  instant  before  my  mind's  eye  rose  the 
vision  of  one  standing  speechless  before  his  accusers,  bearing 


488  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

on  his  form  the  marks  of  ruthless  blows.  I  did  not  then 
remember  that  just  before  I  came  out  I  had  been  gazing,  as  I 
often  gazed,  upon  an  Ecce  Homo  of  Albert  Durer's  that  hung 
in  my  room.  Immediately  my  heart  awoke  within  me.  My 
whole  being  still  trembling  with  passionate  struggle  and  grati- 
fied hate,  a  rush  of  human  pity  swept  across  it.  I  took  my 
hand  from  my  enemy's  throat,  rose,  withdrew  some  paces,  and 
burst  into  tears.  I  could  have  embraced  him,  but  I  dared  not 
even  minister  to  him,  for  the  insult  it  would  appear.  He  did 
not  at  (jnce  rise,  and  when  he  did,  he  stood  for  a  few  moments, 
half-unconscious,  I  think,  staring  at  me.  Coming  to  himself, 
he  felt  for  and  found  his  whip — I  thought  with  the  intention 
of  attacking  me  again,  but  he  moved  towards  his  horse,  which 
^vas  quietly  eating  the  grass  now  wet  with  dew.  Gathering  its 
bridle  from  around  its  leg,  he  mounted,  and  rode  back  the  way 
he  had  come. 

I  lingered  for  a  while  utterly  exhausted.  I  was  trembling 
in  every  limb.  The  moon  rose  and  began  to  shed  her  low 
yellow  light  over  the  hazel  copse,  filling  the  lane  with  bright- 
ness and  shadow.  Lilith,  seeming  in  her  whiteness  to  gather 
a  tenfold  share  of  the  light  upon  herself,  was  now  feeding  as 
gently  as  if  she  had  known  nothing  of  the  strife,  and  I  con- 
gratulated myself  that  the  fall  had  not  injured  her.  But  as 
she  took  a  step  forward  in  her  feeding,  I  discovered  to  my 
dismay  that  she  was  quite  lame.  For  my  own  part  I  was  now 
feeling  the  ache  of  numerous  and  severe  bruises.  When  I 
took  Lilith  by  the  bridle  to  lead  her  away,  I  found  that 
neither  of  us  could  manage  more  than  two  miles  an  hour.  I 
was  very  uneasy  about  her.  There  was  nothing  for  it  however 
but  make  the  best  of  our  way  to  Gastford.  It  was  no  little 
satisfaction  to  think  as  we  hobbled  along,  that  the  accident 
had  happened  through  no  carelessness  of  mine  beyond  that  of 
cantering  in  the  dark,  for  I  was  on  my  own  side  of  the  road. 
Had  Geoffi-ey  been  on  his,  narrow  as  the  lane  was,  we  might 
have  passed  without  injury. 

It  was  so  late  when  we  reached  Gastford,  that  we  had  to 
rouse  the  ostler  before  I  could   get  Lilith  attended   to.     I 


A   COLLISION.  489 

bathed  the  injured  leg,  of  which  the  shoulder  seemed  wrenched ; 
and  having  fed  her,  but  less  plentifully  than  usual,  I  left  her 
to  her  repose.  In  the  morning  she  was  considerably  better, 
but  I  resolved  to  leave  her  where  she  was,  and  sending  a 
messenger  for  Styles  to  come  and  attend  to  her,  I  hired  a  gig, 
and  went  to  call  on  my  new  friend,  the  rector  of  Umberden. 

I  told  him  all  that  had  happened,  and  where  I  had  left  the 
volume.  He  said  he  would  have  a  chest  made  in  which  to 
secure  the  whole  register,  and,  meanwhile,  would  himself  go  to 
the  chui'ch  and  bring  the  volume  home  with  him.  It  is  safe 
enough  now,  as  any  one  may  find  who  wishes  to  see  it — though 
the  old  man  has  long  passed  away. 

Lilith  remained  at  Gastford  a  week  before  I  judged  it  safe 
for  her  to  come  home.  The  injury  however  turned  out  to  be 
a  not  very  serious  one. 

Why  should  I  write  of  my  poor  mare — ^but  that  she  was 
once  hers  all  for  whose  hoped  perusal  I  am  writing  this  ?  ISTo, 
there  is  even  a  better  reason :  I  shall  never,  to  all  my  eternity, 
forget,  even  if  I  should  never  see  her  again,  which  I  do  not 
for  a  moment  believe,  what  she  did  for  me  that  evening. 
Surely  she  deserves  to  appear  in  her  own  place  in  my  story ! 

Of  course  I  was  exercised  in  my  mind  as  to  who  had  sent 
me  the  warning.  There  could  be  no  more  doubt  that  I  had 
hit  what  it  intended,  and  had  possibly  preserved  the  register 
from  being  once  more  tampered  with.  I  could  think  only  of 
one.  I  have  never  had  an  opportunity  of  inquiring,  and  for 
her  sake  I  should  never  have  asked  the  question,  but  I  have 
little  doubt  it  was  Clara.  Who  else  could  have  had  a  chance 
of  making  the  discovery,  and  at  the  same  time  would  have 
cared  to  let  me  know  it  ?  Also  she  would  have  cogent  reason 
for  keeping  such  a  part  in  the  affair  a  secret.  Probably  she 
had  heard  her  father  informing  Geoffrey ;  but  he  might  have 
done  so  with  no  worse  intention  than  had  informed  his  previous 
policy. 


490  WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE. 


CHAPTER    LXIV. 

YET   ONCE. 

I  AM  drawing  my  story  to  a  close.  Almost  all  that  followed 
bears  so  exclusively  upon  my  internal  history,  that  I  will  write 
but  one  incident  more  of  it.  I  have  roamed  the  world,  and 
reaped  many  harvests.  In  the  deepest  agony  I  have  never 
refused  the  consolations  of  Nature  or  of  Truth.  I  have  never 
knowingly  accepted  any  founded  in  falsehood,  in  forgetfulness, 
or  in  distraction.  Let  such  as  have  no  hope  in  God  drink  of 
what  Lethe  they  can  find ;  to  me  it  is  a  river  of  Hell  and 
altogether  abominable.  I  could  not  be  content  even  to  forget 
my  sins.  There  can  be  but  one  deliverance  from  them, 
namely,  that  God  and  they  should  come  together  in  my  soul. 
In  his  presence  I  shall  serenely  face  them.  Without  him  I 
dare  not  think  of  them.  With  God  a  man  can  confront  any- 
thing ;  without  God,  he  is  but  the  withered  straw  which  the 
sickle  of  the  reaper  has  left  standing  on  a  wintry  field.  But 
to  forget  them  would  be  to  cease  and  begin  anew,  which  to  one 
aware  of  his  immortality  is  a  horror. 

If  comfort  profound  as  the  ocean  has  not  yet  overtaken  and 
infolded  me,  I  see  how  such  may  come — perhaps  will  come. 
It  must  be  by  the  enlarging  of  my  whole  being  in  truth,  in 
God,  so  as  to  give  room  for  the  storm  of  rage  yet  not  destroy ; 
for  the  sorrow  to  brood  yet  not  kill ;  for  the  sunshine  of  love 
to  return  after  the  east  wind  and  black  frost  of  bitterest  disap- 
pointment ;  for  the  heart  to  feel  the  uttermost  tenderness  while 
the  arms  go  not  forth  to  embrace ;  for  a  mighty  heaven  of  the 
unknown,  crowded  with  the  stars  of  endless  possibilities,  to 
dawn  when  the  sun  of  love  has  vanished,  and  the  moon  of  its 
memory  is  too  ghastly  to  give  any  light :  it  is  comfort  such 
and  thence  that  I  think  will  one  day  possess  me.  Already 
has  not  its  aurora  brightened  the  tops  of  my  snow-covered 


YET   ONCE.  491 

mountains  ?  And  if  yet  my  valleys  lie  gloomy  and  forlorn,  is 
not  light  on  the  loneliest  peak  a  sure  promise  of  the  coming 
day? 

Only  once  again  have  I  looked  on  Mary's  face.  I  will  re- 
cord the  occasion,  and  then  drop  my  pen. 

About  five  years  after  I  left  home,  I  happened  in  my  wan- 
derings to  be  in  one  of  my  favorite  Swiss  valleys — high  and 
yet  sheltered.  I  rejoiced  to  be  far  up  in  the  mountains,  yet 
behold  the  inaccessible  peaks  above  me — mine,  though  not  to 
be  trodden  by  foot  of  mine — my  heart's  own,  though  never  to 
yield  me  a  moment's  outlook  from  their  lofty  brows ;  for  I 
was  never  strong  enough  to  reach  one  mighty  summit.  It 
was  enough  for  me  that  they  sent  me  down  the  glad  streams 
from  the  cold  bosoms  of  their  glaciers — the  offspring  of  the 
sun  and  the  snow ;  that  I  too  beheld  the  stars  to  which  they 
were  nearer  than  I. 

One  lovely  morning,  I  had  wandered  a  good  way  from  the 
village — a  place  little  frequented  by  visitors,  where  I  had  a 
lodging  in  the  house  of  the  syndic — when  I  was  overtaken  by 
one  of  the  sudden  fogs  which  so  frequently  render  those  upper 
regions  dangerous.  There  was  no  path  to  guide  me  back  to 
my  temporary  home,  but,  a  hundred  jards  or  so  beneath  where 
I  had  been  sitting,  lay  that  which  led  down  to  one  of  the  best 
known  villages  of  the  canton,  where  I  could  easily  find  shelter. 
I  made  haste  to  descend. 

After  a  couple  of  hours'  walking,  during  which  the  fog  kept 
following  me,  as  if  hunting  me  from  its  lair,  I  at  length  ar- 
rived at  the  level  of  the  valley,  and  was  soon  in  one  of  those 
large  hotels  which  in  the  summer  are  crowded  as  bee-hives, 
and  in  the  winter  forsaken  as  a  ruin.  The  season  for  travel- 
lers was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  house  was  full  of  home- 
ward bound  guests. 

For  the  mountains  will  endure  but  a  season  of  intrusion. 
If  travellers  linger  too  long  within  their  hospitable  gates, 
their  humor  changes,  and,  with  fierce  winds  and  snow  and 
bitter  sleet,  they  will  drive  them  forth,  preserving  their  winter 
privacy   for   the   bosom   friends    of    their    mistress.    Nature. 


492  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Many  is  the  winter  since  those  of  my  boyliood  wliich  I  have 
spent  amongst  the  Alps ;  and  in  such  solitude  I  have  ever 
found  the  negation  of  all  solitude,  the  one  absolute  Presence. 
David  communed  with  his  own  heart  on  his  bed  and  was 
still — there  finding  God :  communing  with  my  own  heart  in 
the  winter-valleys  of  Switzerland  I  found  at  least  what  made 
me  cry  out:  "  Surely  this  is  the  house  of  God;  this  is  the 
gate  of  heaven !"  I  w^ould  not  be  supposed  to  fancy  that 
God  is  in  mountains  and  not  in  plains — that  God  is  in  the 
solitude  and  not  in  the  city :  in  any  region  harmonious  with 
its  condition  and  necessities,  it  is  easier  for  the  heart  to  be  still, 
and  in  its  stillness  to  hear  the  still  small  voice. 

Dinner  was  going  on  at  the  table  d'hote.  It  was  full,  but  a 
place  was  found  for  me  m  a  bay  window.  Turning  to  the  one 
side,  I  belonged  to  the  great  world,  represented  by  the  Ger- 
mans, Americans,  and  English,  with  a  Frenchman  and  Italian 
here  and  there,  filling  the  long  table ;  turning  to  the  other,  I 
knew  myself  in  a  temple  of  the  Most  High,  so  huge  that  it 
seemed  empty  of  men.  The  great  altar  of  a  mighty  mountain 
rose,  massy  as  a  world,  and  etherial  as  a  thought,  into  the  up- 
turned gulf  of  the  twilight  air — its  snowy  peak,  ever  as  I  turned 
to  look,  mounting  up  and  up  to  its  repose.  I  had  been  playing 
with  my  own  soul,  spinning  it  between  the  sun  and  the  moon 
as  it  were,  and  watching  now  the  golden  and  now  the  silvery 
side,  as  I  glanced  from  the  mountain  to  the  table  and  again 
from  the  table  to  the  mountain,  when  all  at  once  I  discovered 
that  I  was  searching  the  mountain  for  something — I  did  not 
know  what.  Whether  any  tones  had  reached  me,  I  cannot  tell — 
a  man's  mind  may,  even  through  his  senses,  be  marvellously 
moved  without  knowing  whence  the  influence  comes ; — but 
there  I  was  searching  the  face  of  the  mountain  for  something, 
with  a  want  which  had  not  begun  to  explain  itself.  From 
base  to  peak  my  eyes  went  flitting  and  resting  and  wandering 
again  upwards.  At  last  they  reached  the  snowy  crown,  from 
which  they  fell  into  the  infinite  blue  beyond.  Then,  suddenly, 
the  unkno^vn  something  I  wanted  was  clear.  The  same 
moment,  I  turned  to  the  table.     Almost  opposite  was  a  face  — 


YET   ONCE.  493 

pallid,  with  parted  lips  and  fixed  eyes — gazing  at  me.  Then 
I  knew  those  eyes  had  been  gazing  at  me  all  the  time  I  had 
been  searching  the  face  of  the  mountain.  For  one  moment 
they  met  mine  and  rested ;  for  one  moment,  I  felt  as  if  I  must 
throw  myself  at  her  feet,  and  clasp  them  to  my  heart ;  but  she 
turned  her  eyes  away,  and  I  rose  and  left  the  house. 

The  mist  was  gone,  and  the  moon  was  rising.  I  walked  up 
the  mountain  path  towards  my  village.  But  long  ere  I 
reached  it,  the  sun  was  rising ;  with  his  first  arrow  of  slender- 
est light,  the  tossing  waves  of  my  spirit  began  to  lose  their 
white  tops,  and  sink  again  towards  a  distant  calm  ;  and  ere  I 
saw  the  village  from  the  first  point  of  vision,  I  had  made  the 
following  verses.     They  are  the  last  I  will  set  down. 

I  know  that  I  cannot  move  thee 

To  an  echo  of  my  pain, 
Or  a  thrill  of  the  storming  trouble 

That  racks  my  soul  and  brain  ; 

That  our  hearts  through  all  the  ages 

Shall  never  sound  in  tune; 
That  they  meet  no  more  in  their  cycles 

Than  the  parted  sun  and  moon. 

But  if  ever  a  spirit  flashes 
Itself  on  another  soul, 
One  day,  in  thy  stillness,  a  vapor 
Shall  round  about  thee  roll ! 

And  the  lifting  of  the  vapor 

Shall  reveal  a  world  of  pain, 
Of  frosted  suns,  and  moons  that  wander 

Through  misty  mountains  of  rain. 

Thou  shalt  know  me  for  one  live  instant — 
Thou  sbalt  know  me — and  yet  not  love : 

I  would  not  have  thee  troubled, 
My  cold,  white-feathered  dove. 

I  would  only  once  come  near  thee— 

Myself,  and  not  my  form ; 
Then  away  in  the  distance  wander, 

A  slow-disGolving  storm. 


49-1  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

Tho  vision  should  pass  in  vapor, 
That  melt  iu  aither  again ; 

Only  a  something  linger — 

Not  pain,  but  the  shadow  of  pain. 

And  I  should  know  that  thy  spirit 
On  mine  one  look  had  sent ; 

And  glide  away  from  thy  knowledge^ 
And  try  to  be  half-content. 


CONCLUSION.  495 


CHAPTER  LXY. 

CONCLUSION. 

The  ebbing  tide  that  leaves  bare  the  shore,  swells  the  heaps 
of  the  central  sea.  The  tide  of  life  ebbs  from  this  body  of 
mine,  soon  to  lie  on  the  shore  of  life  like  a  stranded  wreck, 
but  the  murmur  of  the  waters  that  break  upon  no  strand  is  in 
my  ears ;  to  join  the  waters  of  the  infinite  life,  mine  is  ebbing 
away. 

Whatever  has  been  his  will  is  well — grandly  well — well  even 
for  that  in  me  which  feared,  and  in  those  very  respects  in 
which  it  feared  that  it  might  not  be  well.  The  whole  being 
of  me  past  and  present  shall  say :  it  is  infinitely  well,  and  I 
would  not  have  it  otherwise.  Rather  than  it  should  not  be  as 
it  is,  I  would  go  back  to  the  world  and  this  body  of  which  I 
grew  weary,  and  encounter  yet  again  all  that  met  me  on  my 
journey.  Yes — final  submission  of  my  will  to  the  All-will — I 
would  meet  it  knowing  what  was  coming.  Lord  of  me,  Father 
of  Jesus  Christ,  will  this  suflSce  ?  Is  my  faith  enough  yet  ? 
I  say  it,  not  having  beheld  what  thou  hast  in  store — not  know- 
ing what  I  shall  be — not  even  absolutely  certain  that  thou  art 
— confident  only  that,  if  thou  be,  such  thou  must  be. 

The  last  struggle  is  before  me.  But  I  have  passed  already 
through  so  many  valleys  of  death  itself,  where  the  darkness 
was  not  only  palpable,  but  choking  and  stinging,  that  I  cannot 
greatly  fear  that  which  holds  but  the  shadow  of  death.  For 
what  men  call  death,  is  but  its  shadow.  Death  never  comes 
near  us ;  it  lies  behind  the  back  of  God ;  he  is  between  it  and 
us.  If  he  were  to  turn  his  back  upon  us,  the  death  which  no 
imagination  can  shadow  forth,  would  lap  itself  around  us,  and 
we  should  be — we  should  not  know  what. 

At  night  I  lie  wondering  how  it  would  feel ;  and,  but  that 
God  will  be  with  me,  I  would  rather  be  slain  suddenly,  than 


496  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

lie  still  and  await  the  change.  The  growing  weakness,  ushered 
in,  it  may  be,  by  long  agony ;  the  alienation  from  things  about 
me,  while  I  am  yet  amidst  them ;  the  slow  rending  of"  the 
bonds  which  make  this  body  a  home,  so  that  it  turns  half  alien, 
while  yet  some  bonds  uusevered  hold  the  live  thing  fluttering 

in  its  worm-eaten  cage but  God  knows  me  and  my  house, 

and  I  need  not  speculate  or  forebode.     When  it  comes,  death 

will  prove  as  natural  as  birth.     Bethink  thee.  Lord nay, 

thou  never  forgettest.  It  is  because  thou  thinkest  and  feelest 
that  I  think  and  feel ;  it  is  on  thy  deeper  consciousness  that 
mine  ever  floats ;  thou  knowest  my  frame,  and  rememberest 
that  I  am  dust ;  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt.  Let  me  take  cen- 
turies to  die  if  so  thou  wiliest,  for  thou  wilt  be  with  me.  Only 
if  an  hour  should  come  when  thou  must  seem  to  forsake  me, 
watch  me  all  the  time,  lest  self-pity  should  awake,  and  I 
should  cry  that  thou  wast  dealing  hardly  with  me.  For  when 
thou  hidest  thy  face,  the  world  is  a  corpse,  and  I  am  a  live 
soul  fainting  within  it. 

****** 
Thus  far  had  I  written,  and  was  about  to  close  with  certain 
words  of  Job  which  are  to  me  like  the  trumpet  of  the  resur- 
rection, when  the  news  reached  me  that  Sir  Geoffrey  Brother- 
ton  was  dead.  He  leaves  no  children,  and  the  property  is 
expected  to  pass  to  a  distant  branch  of  the  family.  Mary  will 
have  to  leave  Moldwarp  Hall. 

****** 

I  have  been  up  to  London  to  my  friend  Marston — for  it  is 
years  since  Mr.  Coningham  died.  I  have  laid  everything 
before  him,  and  left  the  affair  in  his  hands.  He  is  so  confident 
in  my  cause,  that  he  offers,  in  case  my  means  should  fail  me 
to  find  what  is  necessary  himself ;  but  he  is  almost  as  confident 
of  a  speedy  settlement. 

And  now,  for  the  fii-st  time  in  ray  life,  I  am  about,  shall  I 
say,  to  court  society  ?  At  least  I  am  going  to  London,  about 
to  give  and  receive  invitations,  and  cultivate  the  acquaintance 
of  those  whose  appearance  and  conversation  attract  me. 

I  have  not  a  single  relative,  to  my  knowledge,  in  the  world, 


CONCLUSION.  497 

and  I  am  free,  beyond  question,  to  leave  whatever  property  I 
have  or  may  have  to  whomsoever  I  please. 

My  design  is  this :  if  I  sacceed  in  my  suit,  I  will  offer  Mold- 
warp  to  Mary  for  her  lifetime.  She  is  greatly  beloved  in  the 
county,  and  has  done  much  for  the  laborers,  nor  upon  her  own 
lands  only.  If  she  had  the  full  power  she  would  do  yet  better. 
But  of  course  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  she  will  accept  it. 
Should  she  decline  it,  I  shall  try  to  manage  it  myself— leaving 
it  to  her,  with  reversion  to  the  man,  whoever  he  may  be,  whom 
I  shall  choose  to  succeed  her. 

What  sort  of  a  man  I  shall  endeavor  to  find,  I  think  my 
reader  will  understand.  I  will  not  describe  him,  beyond  saying 
that  he  must  above  all  things  be  just,  generous,  and  free  from 
the  petty  prejudices  of  the  country  gentleman.  He  must 
understand  that  property  involves  service  to  every  human  soul 
that  lives  or  labors  upon  it — the  service  of  the  elder  brother 
to  his  less  burdened  yet  more  enduring  and  more  helpless 
brothers  and  sisters  ;  that  for  the  lives  of  all  such  he  has  in 
his  degree  to  render  account.  For  surely  God  never  meant  to 
uplift  any  man  at  the  expense  of  his  fellows  ;  but  to  uplift  him 
that  he  might  be  strong  to  minister,  as  a  wise  friend  and  ruler, 
to  their  highest  and  best  needs — first  of  all  by  giving  them 
the  justice  which  will  be  recognized  as  such  by  him  before 
whom  a  man  is  his  brother's  keeper,  and  becomes  a  Cain  in 
denying  it. 

Lest  Lady  Brotherton,  however,  should  like  to  have  some- 
thing to  give  away,  I  leave  my  former  will  as  it  was.  It  is  in 
Marston's  hands. 

******* 

Would  I  marry  her  now,  if  I  might  ?  I  cannot  tell.  The 
thought  rouses  no  passionate  flood  within  me.  Mighty  spaces 
of  endless  possibility  and  endless  result  open  before  me. 
Death  is  knocking  at  my  door. 

No — no  ;  I  will  be  honest,  and  lay  it  to  no  half  reasons, 
however  wise. — I  would  rather  meet  her  then  first,  when  she 
is  clothed  in  that  new  garment  called  by  St.  Paul  the  spiritual 
32 


498  WILFRID   CUMBERMEDE. 

body.  That,  Geofirey  has  never  touched ;  over  that  he  has 
no  chiim. 

But  if  the  loveliness  of  her  character  should  have  purified 
his,  and  drawn  and  bound  his  soul  to  hers  ? 

Father,  fold  me  in  thyself.  The  storm  so  long  still,  awakes ; 
once  more  it  flutters  its  fierce  pinions.  Let  it  not  swing 
itself  aloft  in  the  air  of  my  spirit.  I  dare  not  think,  not 
merely  lest  thought  should  kindle  into  agony,  but  lest  I 
should  fail  to  rejoice  over  the  lost  and  found.  But  my  heart 
is  in  thy  hand.  Need  I  school  myself  to  bow  to  an  imagined 
decree  of  thine  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that,  when  I  shall  know 
a  thing  for  thy  will,  I  shall  then  be  able  to  say  :  Thy  will  be 
done?  It  is  not  enough;  I  need  more.  School  thou  my 
heart  so  to  love  thy  will,  that  in  all  calmness  I  leave  to  think 
what  may  or  may  not  be  its  choice,  and  rest  in  its  holy  self. 

She  has  sent  for  me.  I  go  to  her.  I  will  not  think  before- 
hand what  I  shall  say. 

Something  within  tells  me  that  a  word  from  her  would 
explain  all  that  sometimes  even  now  seems  so  inexplicable  as 
hers.  Will  she  speak  that  word?  Shall  I  pray  her  for  that 
word  ?    I  know  nothing.     The  pure  Will  be  done ! 


THE  END. 


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